


Starshine

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Stardust (2007), Stardust - All Media Types, Stardust - Neil Gaiman
Genre: 20k+, Angst, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, all the tropes but not all in every chapter, everything is resolved, over the course of this we go from Colleagues to Married so idk how else to tag that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-07-16 05:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16079186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: NOTE: You don't need to have watch/read Stardust to follow this; it's just a standard colleagues-to-married-type fic with an extra bit ;)AU in which Rufus Drumknott was a star whom the wizards somehow managed to knock from the sky. This tale covers his new life on the Disc, his growing attachment to his new home, and his blossoming relationship with a human of considerably more intrigue than any other.





	1. 1985, Sektober: Starfall

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! The 20k boy. My child. This is, however, so not mine it’s practically laughable; the concept is broadly Neil Gaiman’s (... and Terry Pratchett’s...) and the characters are totally Sir Terry’s. The years are all courtesy of the wonderful Wiki (https://wiki.lspace.org/mediawiki/Discworld_Timeline), save for the last few chapters, for which I reread the books and guessed. The words are mine, but only for a given value of “mine”.  
> Also it really pays to have read the books referenced (not Stardust though!) in each eponymous chapter... but I have tried to make it at least passably readable without having done so (which makes crossover-writing that much more difficult).

“Was that _supposed_ to happen, do you think, Runes?” asked the Archchancellor of the Unseen University, peering down the tube.

“Damn foolish of young Stibbons if it wasn’t, I say,” answered the Lecturer in Ancient Runes, backing away from the mechanism slowly with the grin of a man who has just been informed, having consumed a plateful of prawns, that they had in fact gone off last week.

Ponder Stibbons entered the room a few minutes later, carrying a large box of doughnuts (it being easier to keep the wizards’ attention that way), to find the senior faculty huddled together far from the instrument which he had been about to demonstrate, and staring intently at the various corners of the room. He sighed heavily and resisted the urge to close his eyes, raise them to the heavens, or begin hitting his head on the door jamb. This was not least because the Bursar was doing all three, and while Ponder had many interests, becoming the subject of a second frog pill experiment was not one of them.

He set the box on the floor. The senior faculty’s eyes snapped to it like a wolf to an especially plump and possibly be-ribboned rabbit. Ponder swallowed nervously and shuffled over to the device, carefully avoiding the box as he did so. Don’t show fear, that was the way. They could smell fear. And doughnuts.

A minute or so later, he surfaced into a frenzy of robes and pointy hats and bellows of “ _I saw it first, man, hand it over!_ ”, blinked a few times, then checked again. There was no mistaking it. He didn’t even know it was possible. He cleared his throat. Then he cleared it again, but a little more pointedly this time. Silence disdained to reign. He licked his lips and progressed to the next step: clear, simple speech.

“Gentlemen, you’ve knocked a _star_ out of the _sky_.” Smothering stillness greeted this pronouncement. He tried not to panic. He was really trying very hard not to panic. Panicking was not on today’s agenda. But of course, _of course_ they would blame him when it landed in a huge crater of ash and fire and broke the Disc in two. He began to shake uncontrollably, and made a noise which might generously be transcribed as “aaaeet”, as he clutched at the golden cylinder with white-knuckled hands.

“Snap out of it, man!” bellowed Archchancellor Ridcully (this being his natural volume of speech), striding out of the doughnut-oriented tableau and clipping him briskly round the ear. Ponder yelled and staggered backwards with the force of the blow. A University diet certainly wasn’t affecting Ridcully’s brute strength in any way.

While Ponder was thus incapacitated, Ridcully took the opportunity to peer down the tube himself. “Good gods!” he exclaimed. “And you say that’s the sky? Looks more like the inside of a wardrobe if you ask me. Are you sure you’re not having a laugh?” He glanced over at the younger wizard, who was still cross-eyed from the force of the blow, and tapping his head gingerly to make certain there was no permanent damage. “Well, maybe not,” the Archchancellor admitted grudgingly.

Ponder edged closer again, although not within arm’s reach, and began examining bits of the mechanism and muttering.

Ridcully looked round at the faculty and made a face. “Looks like the stress has got to the lad.” He turned back to Ponder and raised his voice, as one does when speaking to the very small or the hard of hearing. Unfortunately, as this was Ridcully, Ponder found himself going unfortunately and suddenly deaf in one ear as a consequence. “It’s all right, Stibbons, we all make mistakes!” he said jovially. “Don’t you worry, we can forgive this little-”

But Ponder had shut out the voice in sheer rage (not to mention deafness) after the first sentence. Now all he could hear was a strange high-pitched humming noise, which surrounded him on all sides like an especially angry bumblebee. He turned back to the Archchancellor, probably interrupting if the look on Ridcully’s face was any indication, and said, “We have to go and find it. Gods alone knows what it will do if left to its own devices. Or what someone _else_ might do.”

This may seem a puzzling statement, as the common knowledge was that stars were giant glittering diamond balls. However, two hundred years prior to this, the common knowledge was that they were huge burning rocks. Meanwhile, the _wizards_ and certain select others knew for certain that stars were, in fact, sentient, and on the rare occasions on which they descended to the Disc and assumed human form, generally prone to bouts of sarcasm, rage and bitterness, cut terminally short by having their heart cut out and eaten.

Because a morsel of information known only to a very few wizards and certain enterprising souls across the Disc, was that if one possessed the heart of a star one might live forever.

And the wizards of Unseen University, while generally content to hold themselves in splendid isolation from the rest of Ankh-Morpork, recognised that their currently unlimited access to nine meals a day might be severely curtailed if someone with aspirations of greatness found the star before they did. For while they weren’t exactly _fond_ of Vetinari, they recognised that he was, in a not-inconsiderable way, responsible for this veritable cornucopia of gastronomic indulgence, and thus the potential that some _other_ bugger might use celestial sorcery to overthrow him was unthinkable.

As these thoughts filtered through each wizard’s head, Ponder leafed through a book which he had brought up for the demonstration. After the bottleneck around the door had evaporated, as each wizard rushed for the nearest functional broomstick, he followed thoughtfully, sending a nearby student to secure a coach on pain of withheld dinners.

The star they had knocked out of the sky (and the gods alone knew how, it shouldn’t have been possible with that technology!) was – or rather, had been – one of the twenty-eight dividing the sky into more easily-navigated portions. This could cause widespread issues if not rectified immediately, not least among the merchant sailors and traders. He jotted something down in his notebook and hurried after the rest of the faculty.

***

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork looked up from signing the death warrants of the day as the atmosphere _bent_ throughout the office, not unlike the effect produced by a large dragon keeping time outside (after all, he knew all too well the effect which a large dragon had on the atmosphere). He glanced briefly out of the window onto a blissfully lizard-free sky (narrativium demanding that such an event could not reoccur), then rang a small black bell on his desk. It sat quite innocently next to a golden one, and it was said that only the Patrician knew exactly the purpose of each.*

After half a minute or so, the door to the Oblong Office opened a crack, and a black-clad man sidled in. Even his face contrived to sidle – which was no mean feat given that it was (as indeed they tend to be) firmly affixed to the rest of his body. As the walls of the office were limestone, however, this miraculous accomplishment achieved little other than to make him appear distinctly untrustworthy.

Which, in point of fact, he was. One of a select band of clerks trained at the Assassins’ Guild, Bacon Trayes had been born to a family of civil servants and had thus been pinned by all who knew him for a full-time desk job and part-time life of crime, of petty unlicensed theft, and perhaps the odd manslaughter – due to the fact that his father had followed this path, as had his mother, and his father’s father, his mother’s mother, and his second cousin. The Patrician had recognised this, and instead of fulfilling the unofficial prophecy by hiring him as a clerk, hired him as a _Dark_ Clerk. So while he remained totally untrustworthy in every respect, he was, until official, aha, _termination_ of employment, the Patrician’s man, hook, line and sinker. They all were.

As he approached the desk, a pigeon fluttered in through the high open window and landed on the Patrician’s desk. The tyrant pulled the rolled missive from its leg and released it about its business, to which it promptly departed. Even pigeons, it seemed, were averse to spending time in his presence. He skimmed the note, nodded, then informed the Assassin that certain goods had become available somewhere past the Rimward Gate, and that no matter the state in which they found themselves, they were to be brought to the Palace forthwith.

After he had departed about his errand, the Patrician frowned a little in the silence, before proceeding to the ranged bookshelves behind him and selecting a dull blue tome, flicking to about two-thirds of the way in, quickly scanning the contents, then closing it thoughtfully. Folklore insisted that stars were alive, that they were in fact humanoid, but there had been thus far no evidence of this. There was something else, however. Something about... eternal life. His frown deepened. He disliked gaps in his knowledge – they were few and far between, and the novelty was not a sensation which he relished.

It would be many years later that he would stumble across the information – and wonder what his younger self might have done with the knowledge. He returned to the myriad letters from the Guilds in front of him. Something would have to be done about them, that much was certain.

 

 

* This is, of course, foolish; if the Patrician had been the sole holder of that knowledge, ringing either bell would have been an exercise in fruitlessness.

***

It was some hours later that a suspicious knock was heard on the Oblong Office’s doors. Vetinari had not concerned himself in the intervening period about the whereabouts of the star; the men in his employ knew that they had one chance in the job, and would thus go to arguably extreme lengths to succeed. If anyone else had been seeking it, he was certain in the knowledge that they would fail.

He set down his quill, and looked up expectantly. “Come.”

“We collected the star, as required, my lord,” Trayes reported to a patch of wall behind the Patrician. “Met some wizards on the way, who agreed it would be best to bring the star here.”

The strident tones of Mustrum Ridcully could be heard from down the hall. The Clerk squared his jaw. “They are in complete agreement, sir. Would you like it brought in, sir? The star, I mean.”

Well, that put the burning lump of rock theory firmly in its grave at any rate. “Please do,” Vetinari waited with hands clasped in front of him for the goods to be displayed.

And was, despite all visible evidence to the contrary, extremely surprised when the goods turned out to look like a human. An arguably male human with softly curling blond hair and eyes so pale a blue they were almost white. It... he? was wearing a loose-fitting silvery robe, and an expression of overwhelmed fear.

Vetinari found himself immediately fascinated, and would gladly have stood and looked at the... being for hours. It drew the eye, as stars so often did, especially when the viewer was a city-dweller. The Patrician had never previously ascribed to such idle curiosities, but began to see how one might, in the right circumstances, be compelled to. It was truly a breathtaking sight.

His expression changed not a jot. “Thank you, Trayes. You may send in the Archchancellor and Stibbons now.”

The man nodded and left. It was spooky, he thought to himself, how Vetinari had known which wizards were outside – but his job wasn’t to think about those kinds of things, and so he didn’t.

In the half-minute before Ridcully burst into the room (as only a man like Ridcully can burst, followed by the ever-present tugboat that was Ponder Stibbons), the star and the Patrician regarded each other carefully – one for signs of violence, anger or similar, and the other for a sign that this might not in fact be a celestial being. Both found themselves disappointed, if disappointed is the right word.

“Mustrum.” Vetinari’s eyes narrowed. “Please do explain the meaning of this.”

Ridcully was a clever man, despite the bluster, and recognised in the Patrician’s tone that the request was not, as such, a request. The star recognised this too, and tensed almost imperceptibly. Ponder drifted from the gravitational pull of the Archchancellor and closer to it? him?, catching the eye of the silvery being and flashing them a reassuring smile behind the Archchancellor’s back. The star... flickered, somehow, then averted their gaze to the floor.

Meanwhile, Ponder’s name had been predictably dragged through the dirt, and the Patrician was, to a large degree, up to speed with the preceding chain of events. Ponder thought it pertinent to add to this, however, as the only person present with any kind of expertise: “It’s strange, sir. All the documents regarding stars say they are rather... feisty, if I may put it that way. Prone to bouts of anger, bitterness, and suchlike. This one... does not fit the perceived mould.”

The three of them turned to look at the star, who swallowed, but stared back, dampened fear still flickering in the backs of those crystal clear eyes.

“I am a star. My name is Rufus.” The voice was quiet, embodying the stillness of libraries and clear ancient forests, but with a soft lilt which reminded one of a native of Llamedos. “And you should be thankful that it was not my one of my sisters you knocked from the skies, or you would indeed find yourselves in a considerably greater predicament.” Such a voice should not sound threatening, and yet the three found themselves unaccountably ashamed, as though all their sins had been laid bare in an instant.**

Given that he had the least sins in the moment, Ponder rallied first and managed, “But we don’t- there’s no way to- we _can’t_ send you home... Rufus. We don’t even know how you got here. I’m sorry.” He looked down at his feet, his face screwed up with awkwardness. He’d chosen to remain in academia in part so he _didn’t_ have to speak to people; this was, given his last few years of experience, going rapidly up the proverbial creek.

Rufus remained silent, blinking once.

Vetinari assessed the situation and found only one solution, as much as the star would probably dislike it. He broke away from the little group in the middle of the room and went to stand by the window.*** It was easier, somehow, to claim the words from the ever-present Ankh-Morpork smog, than to create them anew in the stark office.

“In which case, as you cannot return to your home until the wizards have uncovered where exactly they stumbled in their... research, you may be employed in the palace until such time as that eventuates. _There will be questions_ ,” he answered the puzzled looks of the room at large, “if you are seen simply to exist here. And given the erratic nature of university success,” (Ponder let out a hastily-muffled squawk) “and your apparent sanity, I am disinclined to shut you in a room and pretend you don’t exist.” He was also disinclined to examine any other potential reasons for this disinclination, and shut _them_ in a little mental cupboard to be ignored at leisure. “You will likely do well as a clerk here. Think of it as a learning experience, or holiday, before you return.” He flashed a brief smile at the pale figure, which continued to simply gaze at him with curiously blank yet intelligent eyes. The eyes of someone far older than they appeared. On which thought...

“How old are you... Rufus? And we shall have to find you a second name. The other clerks will see to it.”

“Three hundred years of your time. I am only young by our standards,” was the quiet reply.

Ponder gasped, and was as usual ignored by the room at large.

“Hm. Clerk Neatwater outside will discuss your enrolment. Don’t mention your provenance... Rufus.” A neat eyebrow was raised infinitesimally.

The star smiled for the first time; not quite happily, but the smile of one who has resigned themselves to situation at hand and finds it not wholly unpleasant. “Thank you, Havelock Vetinari.”

He then turned and left, as Ridcully’s jaw threatened to hit the carpet and Ponder’s eyes went so wide you could have sailed ships in them.

“Don’t let me detain you, gentlemen,” Vetinari continued blithely. “I am sure there is much important _research_ to be getting on with.”

He turned back to his desk as the wizards scurried out (as much as a man the size of Mustrum Ridcully can scurry), and frowned as he watched the door close. The star, if that were what he was, might be here for a long time.

 

 

**Vetinari’s sins, though arguably multitudinous, were not ones with which he usually concerned himself, given that they were in the main for the good of the city; Ridcully’s sins floated up as “borrowed” items and confidences stretched. Ponder Stibbons, with not a sin to his name, nevertheless felt a strange, haunting emptiness pervade his person.

*** Ridcully was shaken out of his sin-related reverie by the sight, as black flamingos paraded across his inner eye. He shivered and longed for the comfort of a good solid pie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We'll see how we go for the next chapter, I'm not sure when it will be uploaded. If you liked it please feel free to leave a comment! Or if you didn't like it~ This will probably be the last thing I write for a while, so I hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> Note: By some incredible stroke of luck, there is a genuine star whose Indian name is Rohini “the red one” (modern name Aldebaran) (get it? Red? Rufus? The red one? I loved that). Furthermore!! in Hindu astronomy, there was an older tradition of 28 Nakshatras (lunar mansions seemingly named after a star within them) which were used as celestial markers in the heavens. When these were mapped into equal divisions of the ecliptic, a division of 27 portions was adopted since that resulted in a cleaner definition of each portion – THUS ALLOWING FOR THE REMOVAL OF ONE OF THEM IN A DISCWORLD CONTEXT!!! I did actual research it was very exciting forgive me.


	2. 1986, March: Soul Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vetinari is curious (so that's what they're calling it these days) about the star. Drumknott is trying to blend in.

Vetinari leaned back in his chair after both Drumknott and Foul Ole Ron’s Smell had vacated the Oblong Office, and set Salami’s _Prelude to a Nocturne on the Theme by Bubbla_ down on the desk again. He sighed. The wizards had thus far acquired no further insights in their rather haphazard search for a method to send the star back into the sky; they had, from his reports, created another world, and got quite close to splitting the thaum, but aside from depleting the food supplies of Ankh to a marginally greater degree, achieved very little else. It was decidedly frustrating.

His preference for leaving magical matters to the University’s rather dubious expertise (especially given the informal entente between the two pillars of state) meant that he was in respect of such matters only marginally better-informed than the wizards (as opposed to his usual state of information-surplus), and thus was unsure about his hypothesis, but he felt that there was something... wrong with the star.

Surely stars were supposed to shine bright enough to blind people if you looked at them for too long? At least, so said both common folklore and the only marginally sane wizard over at the University (though admittedly, such sanity was only for a given value of sane; Vetinari rather suspected that sense was not one of the requirements valued in potential students).

But this star... was so bland as to be unnoticeable. He had if anything become more invisible as the days and months wore on, which given that he was increasingly in contact with Vetinari in his daily work was almost ( _almost_ ) something of a concern. Certainly invisibility in the staff was desirable, but not when that invisibility extended to Vetinari himself. _That_ became rather more dangerous, even if the perpetrator was a centuries-old celestial being with no apparent motive for committing any kind of crime. It was a puzzle, and no mistake. And if there was one thing which Vetinari loved, after over a decade of ruling this twisting and recalcitrant city, it was puzzles.*

 

 

*And dogs.

***

Drumknott closed the door behind him silently and glided on noiseless feet towards the waiting room with the distressingly-timed clock. He did everything silently. Walked silently, closed doors and drawers with nary a sound, shuffled papers in a manner which made one wonder if they were made of satin, scratched away for hours with a quill and a distinct lack of the actual scratching noise, and spoke so softly one ended the conversation wondering whether he had _in fact_ spoken, or if you had simply inserted the answers you wished to hear into the gaps in the speech.**

He found it the easiest way in which to deal with these people; three hundred years of watching the cruelties of the sentient Disc-bound races prompted caution, manifesting in the desire to be as unnoticeable as possible. To a large degree, this was a successful endeavour – apparently save where the Lord Vetinari was concerned. He could practically _feel_ the man contemplating him on occasions; a certain sense telling him that eyes were on him. He supposed the trait had developed from three centuries of being watched by various two-legged life forms from below: due to its being the normal state of affairs, he could identify when that was _not_ the case. And certainly it followed that the man wanted to keep an eye on him in case he did anything foolish like, perhaps, spontaneously combust, but... he didn’t think he was capable even of shining if he tried, never mind setting things alight.

He shook himself mentally, and reminded himself: he had lived for three centuries in the sky, seen the rise and fall of nations and turtles like. A decade stranded on a disc wouldn’t hurt him, in the grand scene of things. But it felt so interminably long without his siblings to pass the time; and moreover, practically without his own thoughts – work during the daylight hours and ever-present insomnia at night had contrived to make him so tired as to manage no more than the bare minimum. Thought was a rare privilege. To think that he, Drumknott- he paused in his internal monologue, as though he had run up against a brick wall.

He had been here barely half a year, and already he was beginning to forget who he was, to be indoctrinated into the Ankh-Morpork way. His name was Rufus. Rufus Drumknott, if necessary, but Rufus would always be his true name. The name he no longer heard his siblings whisper to him at night. Nobody here on the Disc called him by it, and he could feel himself, day by day, fading away to just another human, just another clerk. Perhaps this sojourn from the sky would be more dangerous than he had thought. Perhaps a decade would lead him to forget completely, and he would live out a human life as just another one of the lost souls packing the city below, and the lands beyond.

He shivered a little, and pushed open the door to inform the irate musician waiting in the anteroom of the Patrician’s will. He left the man wondering, ten seconds later, if he had begun talking to the door in his rage.

 

 

** Something of which the certain sectors of society which come into regular contact with men such as the Patrician are often guilty. In time, he would turn it to his advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is more exciting, I promise - but we had to set it up somehow! Hope you liked it, regardless! xx


	3. 1986, May: Interesting Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On smiling and promotions and mutual curiosity. Drumknott begins, carefully, to enjoy himself.

It was something Rufus had noticed even while watching the Disc from up in the sky – the most powerful man on it, someone who had every reason to do so, hardly ever smiled. Not properly at any rate. Oh yes, there was the thin smile, the smile of so-called gratitude, the smile of scorpions, the smile of _potential_ scorpions, the smile of you’re wrong and of I’m right – but not one of genuine mirth.*

But he had smiled when Rufus, completely unbidden, had returned from his sudden errand with a jar of anchovies and the bottle of fish paste (liberated rather reluctantly from the cook on duty, it may be said), the weakest of glows suffusing his visible skin in the early-morning summer light.

“I noticed the creature flying overhead, my lord, and surmised that it had business with you,” he said by way of explanation. “I have also sent a runner to the University for the Archchancellor, as you requested.”

Vetinari thought, not for the first time, that there was space for some enterprising individual to fashion a system whereby the human element might be removed from the delivery of brief messages – keeping a person fit enough to run anywhere at a moment’s notice was no mean feat in Ankh-Morpork. “Will you be requiring anything else, my lord?”

“No, thank you, Drumknott, that will be all,” he said, still enwrapped in his own thoughts. “Do ask clerk Jenkyns to show the Archchancellor in on your way out.” As he flicked briefly through a small pile of papers on his desk, he wondered at the glow. Something had changed. He smiled to himself.

***

**1986, June**

Some weeks later, Drumknott arrived at his usual desk on the eighth floor of the Palace to discover, in the centre of the otherwise bare surface, a small missive. Pale blue: internal mail – not an uncommon occurrence where a clerk had had to leave unfinished work the day before. He looked around the room for any similar adornments, and found none, and nobody yet awake at this hour who might be of assistance. Thus, he sat down at his desk, and opened it.

His blood ran cold. The Patrician’s neat hand filled the first few lines of the page. This itself was not unusual. As one of the only clerks awake at five in the morning (the insomnia still plagued him most nights), he was often the first port of call for any documents required unexpectedly. However, something about this message set his teeth on edge. He stared at it for another minute, willing it in vain to divulge its secrets.

It was only as he left the clerks’ office again to head down to the Oblong Office that he realised: the note was a summons, with no attending request for specific information.

Two flights of stairs after this revelation, Drumknott had worked himself into a state of considerable concern – not that one would have noticed it to look at him. In _that_ part of his training at least, he had excelled. (The same, unfortunately, could not be said for restraining positive emotions, which in recent weeks had become something of a hazard for him: the other clerks at least did not have to contend with lighting up like a humanoid firefly when praised. He supposed he should be thankful that he had been able to retain positive feelings at all, given the circumstances, but it did add a certain amount of stress to any situation.) Had he been presumptuous the last time he had spoken to the Patrician? Would he be cast out? Where would he go? To the wizards? He was cripplingly aware that his continued existence on this floating slice of rock was contingent upon fitting in, upon being helpful, upon the prevailing acceptance of its _de facto_ ruler. It was thus with considerable trepidation that he knocked upon the solid oak door of the Oblong Office.

“Come,” was the immediate reply.

Fortifying breaths before the door of the Oblong Office were considered (by Rufus, certainly) to be the realm of lesser men, and thus no such luxury was taken; he slid into the room with nary a murmur, and approached the desk by the far wall as though on oiled skates. He had been told once during his all too brief training (which felt like years ago now) that a clerk ought to move silently, to become almost part of the stationery and the office itself. Already naturally much more reticent than his siblings in the sky, he took to this like the proverbial duck to water and became rapidly known among the Palace’s inhabitants, if he but knew it, for his calm and collected mannerisms and his softness of step.

As he spoke to very few of the other clerks, however – being constantly aware of the warning with which the Patrician had furnished him upon his arrival (to wit: tell no-one of your background) – he remained, somewhat ironically, in the dark.

Which incidentally was the state of the Oblong Office at this time of the morning – weak light was filtering through the smog, but nothing like enough to illuminate. His eyes darted briefly down to the desk strewn with papers. Could the Patrician see in the dark?

“Please sit down, Drumknott.” Vetinari indicated the chair in front of the desk, drifting awkwardly in the vast empty space, appearing almost drawn towards the weightier official object, like celestial bodies are pulled towards each other. Or like they are pulled towards black holes. Rufus sat, hands neatly folded in his lap, and regarded the Patrician.

And, as always, was himself regarded in turn, with eyes bluer than the centre of galaxies, brighter than octarine, sharper than the sudden wrench of being torn from your home. Yet despite all he saw in them, and despite the implications and memories which they unknowingly held, Rufus found himself drawn to them, as he had been drawn to brighter stars in his mansion. An eternity later, the Patrician blinked, obscuring them from view for, oh, aeons – and spoke.

“You appear to have settled in well, Drumknott.” That was unexpected. Surely this was no mere social call. The new name still jarred, centuries of habit being very difficult to change in a single year, but Rufus forced himself to ignore this discomfiture. It was another emotional skill at which he was becoming quite adept.

“Yes, thank you, my lord.” That was something else. Being one of the many had necessitated using their language, odd though it had at first seemed. In the end, he reasoned, the respectful moniker was simply another name; a trait in which Ankh-Morpork seemed to put great stock – for entirely the wrong reasons, in his opinion. “I still find myself having trouble sleeping during the night, but hopefully in time this will no longer present an issue.” Whether because his sleeping schedule adjusts or because he returns home.

Vetinari raised a fraction of an eyebrow. Of course, he understood the hidden meaning. Rufus felt a sudden wash of (carefully controlled) pleasure that of all the places he had to land, he had landed here, with access (however remote) to such incredible perception, vast intelligence... and admittedly glorious eyes. He ought to consider this a learning experience, at the very least: no star, to his knowledge, had lived among humans in the past. He would have such incredible stories for the nursery when he finally returned.

“I am gratified to hear this,” was the eventual rejoinder. “I have decided, in light of your nature and vast experience of discly matters in a general sense, and of the fact that the wizards appear to be somewhat inhibited in their current line of research, to offer you the position of personal secretary. To myself, obviously.”

Rufus couldn’t restrain a flare of delight at the proposal, focussed as he was on concealing the shock which it engendered. It was as though the Patrician had read his earlier thoughts – this would be the perfect opportunity to comprehend the depths of the Ankh-Morpork psyche, to see how the little things multiplied to create something far more important, to watch how the city developed _from within_.

He quelled the glow as quickly as he was able, though he knew the Patrician had seen it – at least, he considered wryly, restraining it demonstrated a willingness to conform, if not the ability. And for the pleasure of the bright blue eyes in front of him, he _would_ conform. To be so privileged as to look at them and to be privy to the thoughts of the piercing mind which they concealed was ample recompense as far as he was concerned.

“You may utilise the desk outside for your work; the previous rota system will be abandoned,” Vetinari was saying. “There is access to the filing systems through the door to the left. Your duties will no doubt become clearer as you undertake them. I believe Captain Vimes of the Watch will be in touch later on today.” He returned to the papers in front of him. “As you may remember, if you were looking in this general direction last year, your predecessor was unfortunately _dropped_ from his position, thus necessitating rather more care in your appointment.” He looked up again briefly, and inclined his head. “Thank you, Drumknott.”

Rufus completed the machinations of rising, bowing and exiting in something of a daze, floating through the door like so much mist. He found the papers on which he had been working yesterday already arranged on the much larger desk outside, along with his own paperclips and quill, which he knew had been neatly stowed in his drawer the previous evening. With no one around to see, he allowed himself the privilege of relaxing into a soft glow as he sat down to his new position.

***

As the door closed quietly behind his new secretary, Vetinari continued to regard the far wall pensively, something like curiosity dancing across his features. The way in which this strange foundling star _shone_ at intervals was intriguing; and something which he might now, in close quarters, more easily observe. It was time for some research of his own. Of course, it being _his_ research, it would be infinitely more successful than that of the wizards.

He relit the candle on his desk and continued scanning the latest minutes from the Thieves’ Guild meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *[A/N: Of course all that rot about smiling is soon to change – for reading the books in order Vetinari does in fact develop from someone quite reserved with his emotions (if not with his thoughts), into a man who has no qualms laughing over his best friend’s misfortune (see: UA), at besting the Times crossword compiler (see: Snuff) and generally cracking more droll jokes than an egg enrolled at the Fools’ Guild.]
> 
> It's been sO long since I uploaded a chapter, so apologies. Thank you to those who have read and commneted in the meantime though, it means a lot to me <3 As always, comments are most welcome xx


	4. 1986, Grune: Men at Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vetinari has just been shot in the leg, but ‘tis but a scratch! He attends Vimes and Sybil’s wedding anyway. Rufus has, meanwhile, been panicking.

Vetinari sat calmly through the wedding without so much as moving a muscle. After all, it was vital that he be seen, that rumour was prevented from spreading, that he did not in any way, shape or form stand up –

The ceremony ended. The guests immediately made as discreet a beeline as possible to the rather belated wedding dinner which had been laid on in the best traditions of Unseen University. The guard of honour which had sprung up around him after he was brought in turned as a man – or rather as a bipedal humanoid – to him, and awaited instructions which he found himself suddenly incapable of giving. Whatever Ridcully had put in that so-called healing tonic was playing havoc with the mechanics of tongue movement.

As he was preparing to give possibly the most incoherent speech of his life, however, Ponder Stibbons blessedly bustled up, taking in the whole scene with a quick sweep and smiling down at the Patrician. “My lord. I, ah, surmise that you would now like to return to the Palace, given your... indisposition. The Archchancellor’s doctoring has been known to flatten even the most hardy of wizards, and, if you will pardon the observation, I note that you lack approximately forty per cent of the average wizard’s blood content... to begin with...” He fiddled awkwardly with his sleeve, then, finding no negation of this observation forthcoming, turned to the nearest Watchman (who happened to be a troll) and instructed him to help the Patrician to the carriage waiting outside.

This took far longer than Vetinari would have liked, despite the reassuring wall-like qualities of his support, which enabled him to lean fully on the troll where he could not have done on a human. What felt like a good ten minutes later, he sank gratefully into the back of a hastily-commandeered carriage, with Ponder Stibbons beside him and the troll opposite. He blearily noted a dwarf hopping up to take the reins, and as he looked out of the window found his view curtailed by the rest of his impromptu guard.

He badly needed a cup of tea.

It was with this thought still spinning idly through his brain (in itself unthinkable; that a thought of Vetinari’s should be idle was testament to the potency of Ridcully’s so-called remedy) that the carriage rolled into the gravel driveway of the Palace. He peered cautiously out of the space visible in the doorway, where Stibbons had jumped down when the carriage halted, and battled the urge to collapse then and there. His head was almost certainly not up to the journey to the door.

By the time he had ascertained that this was indeed the case, his skull now feeling not dissimilar to a merrily rotting rhubarb patch as he clambered from the carriage, the small inset door to the palace had been opened, and the audience to his ignominy had increased by one.

Rufus Drumknott sped across the gravel with as much noise as Vetinari had ever heard him produce, engaged in a brief murmured conversation with Stibbons, nodded to the gathered Watchmen, then turned to the Patrician, concern scrawled haphazardly on his face. “My lord, thank the gods you are – we heard some of the most awful rumours over the course of the day. You must be-” he sighed sharply and looked at the ground, screwing up his face as he sought for the right words. “Please let me help you inside; you look... dreadful. You should have come straight back to m- to the Palace. Sir.” He swallowed and winced again.

  _Interesting_ , mused the Patrician muzzily as he was all but carried up the stairs to his rooms through the joint efforts of his secretary and the troll Watchman. What exactly was interesting he wasn’t quite sure, but he was certain that he might be able to identify it in the morning.

***

The morning after the day before dawned bright and sunny, the fog over the city little more than a light haze. The high window of the Patrician’s bedchamber was firmly sealed against the various smells of the roiling mass below, and thus he awakened to an almost idyllic summer day.

As was his wont, he went from sleep to alertness in a heartbeat and stared for a moment at the high canopy of the old four-poster in which he habitually slept. There was something he had had to remember. He could recall that much. He frowned and sighed, turning over to get out of bed – and the day before the morning after reared its ugly head with considerable and frankly unwarranted fanfare.

Ah. Perhaps that was what he had had to remember. He grasped the cane which very helpfully had been rested next to his bedside table and levered himself onto his feet, or perhaps more accurately, foot. The metal slug had gone straight through his leg rather than lodging in it, thankfully; completely shredding quite a lot of muscle on the way through, however, if the twanging sensation was anything to go by (he was not, after all, a Doctor of Medicine and Applied Pathology simply for the additional post-name lettering). He doubted that it would heal overly well, given that he didn’t intend to lounge around and wait for it. The city certainly would wait for nothing, and she was notoriously touchy if he was away for even the briefest period of time.

He edged rather unsteadily towards the door to the adjoining bathroom, with vague ideas of redressing the wound, and possibly of bathing, and had managed about half the distance when a knock came at the door. He paused without turning and slipped his free hand into a pocket.

“Come.”

The door slid open quietly, to be filled with a tray-bearing Drumknott, who gazed in confusion at the bed for several seconds before glancing around the rest of the room and fairly lighting up, even in the brightness of the sunlit room. Vetinari hid a smile by nonchalantly grooming a pristine eyebrow. Ah, yes. He remembered now.

 _Come back to me_. Somehow he had engendered something akin to loyalty in this ancient being. He supposed he ought to be flattered, or proud, but such emotions did not come easily to Havelock Vetinari, and thus it was simply added to the rest of the information he had squirreled away in the vast library of his brain. Such as the fact that the star lit up when pleased. He seemed to have some difficulty controlling it, most notably when surprised, but it was always just as rapidly extinguished.

“I thought you might wish to take breakfast here, sir. I have brought some correspondence from the Guilds regarding the last few days which might be of interest to you.” He set the tray down on the bedside table, clearly hoping that this might dissuade the Patrician from carrying out his intended sojourn into the rest of the palace.

Well, as the things were here now he may as well oblige. Vetinari smiled and turned back to the armchair near the bed. It might do his leg some good to avoid the stairs for a day or two.

***

Two days after the dreadful incident, Rufus looked up from drafting an edict concerning the Guilds’ taxes (although he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that such work was in point of fact fruitless) to the heavy clomp of be-sandalled feet. The large redheaded Watchman smiled easily at him as he proceeded through the door of the Oblong Office.

Drumknott disliked the man immediately on principle. He didn’t even have an appointment! He was too large, too visible, too... content. He wasn’t _quite_ human, with his cheery smile and the bold knock which he bestowed upon the door – and Rufus should know, being not quite human himself. Something about Carrot Ironfoundersson warped the fabric of Rufus’ perfectly structured new world; too much latent power bubbled beneath those robust, seemingly well-meaning hands.

It was only when the Watchman vanished into the office that he realised that he had been holding his breath. Then he began holding it for another reason entirely.

With the Patrician at his weakest, there was no telling what might happen behind closed doors. At least if he, Rufus, were present, he could ensure that any harm which came to the Patrician was witnessed, though his sole defence mechanism would only really inconvenience the average human. Not to mention that shining bright enough to inconvenience _anyone_ if the Patrician were endangered was a near-impossibility. After all, he was the only person on this rock who both understood Rufus’ position and was at least mostly sane – and thus the only person whom he could really trust. To be at the risk of losing that would be a cruel blow indeed.

He thus buried his nose in the paperwork before him and tried not to contemplate it. Presently, he sent down for tea, which arrived shortly after Carrot had stomped back out the way he had come. He slipped, mist-like, into the Oblong Office, concentrating on the dull, much-trampled Klatchian rug in the centre of the floor, and then the dull, much-scrubbed walls, in an attempt to persuade himself that the continued existence of the dull, dusty figure in the wooden chair was not cause for shining.

Thanks to the bright summer light streaming in the window, he largely succeeded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to better at uploading these! Just to get it done. I'm not 100% on this chapter, but there are a few nice bits. It's an awkward phase in a relationship~  
> Comments as always adored like the treasure they are <3


	5. 1987, Sektober: Feet of Clay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the nature of humanity and the perfidy of emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it will definitely have helped to have read this one specifically, because the whole candle-poisoning thing is referenced and it won’t make much sense out of context... also I swEar I will stop slow-burning (lol) very soon; it's this chapter, one more and then The Grand Reveal for thereon out (which is... much more worth it please trust me).
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me for so long!

Drumknott slid into the Oblong Office, averting his eyes with some effort from the figure seated at the far desk, and focussing uncharacteristically on his hands which were, as was customary, bearing the morning tray, and, as might be hoped, not in any way emitting light. In recent months, he had been practicing ever more rigorously the ability to restrain his luminosity at will – a personal secretary to the Patrician, after all, should blend so far into the background as to be part of it, and certainly should not draw comment on his appearance.

He had found that in the last week or so, his skills had been severely strained: every time he visited the Patrician during his illness, and saw him awake and well (at least when compared to his state on that awful morning when Drumknott had found him lying prone on the Office floor), he had to concentrate so much willpower on remaining dull that the Patrician had likely begun to question his suitability for the role. That thought alone had given him two more sleepless nights.*

“Good morning, my lord,” he murmured as he set the tray softly on the desk. “May I say that I am most gratified to have you returned to us after your ordeal.”

“Are you _really_ , Drumknott?” Vetinari smiled – a tired smile, but a real one, with what might have been just a hint of mirth creeping in at the edges. An eyebrow inched upwards.

Drumknott blinked at this discreet reference to his celestial nature and discovered to his dismay that while he had managed to subdue his shine to a large degree, he had developed no such capability when it came to the unfortunate human trait of blushing, to which he appeared to be embarrassingly prone. The Patrician seemed to be crafted specifically to try his control over the myriad new emotions which he now faced, as pervasive and multifarious as the inhabitants of the city beyond the gates.

He ignored this reaction, however, in the best tradition of clerks everywhere, and instead settled for a quiet, “I assure you that I am, sir,” inclining his head before bowing away to the smaller desk which had been set up in the corner of the room to save time otherwise lost in such exercises as bell-ringing, especially in busy periods or on days devoted wholly to the myriad documents awaiting signature or perusal.

The office settled into comfortable silence, punctuated by the scratching of quills. Presently, Vetinari noticed a certain light in the room which could not be coming from their small candles, or indeed, from the window looking out at an autumn morning on which the sun had not yet deigned to gaze. He smiled quietly down at the report from Vimes regarding the last few days’ antics, for once for no other reason than that he could.

He skimmed through the letters littering his desk, then settled on the pile relating to the religious concerns over the golem. Blasphemy, they called it. Creating life where the gods had not. But by their own admittedly tenuous logic, if only the gods could create life, then any life had to be god-given, did it not? Which would either imply that the golems were _alive_ and ultimately creations of the gods, or man-made and therefore _not_ alive. And if it were the latter, then surely there remained no issue to debate. After all, if the gods had cared one iota about the existence of golems in general or Dorfl in particular, surely the clay beings would be discreetly removed from existence? Vetinari found his limited tolerance of the myriad Ankhian religions waning by the second; it seemed that a large amount of their belief derived from a love of debate and too much free time.

He glanced again up at the gently glowing star at the far end of the room. Four hundred years ago, he mused, we thought they were rocks in the sky; two hundred after that and we knew that they were made of clusters of diamonds. Who can say what a golem may turn out to be?

It was half past ten. Drumknott slipped out with a bundle of carefully bookmarked and coded documents before the eleven o’clock meeting with the Commander, to assume his more usual seat in the outer office, once again emitting as much light as any other Ankh-Morpork resident.

 

*He had by now adjusted largely to the sleeping pattern of the world in which he found himself, and thus sleepless nights were of rather more concern than they had been in his former life.

***

Later, after the Commander had left, Rufus remained standing in the long stone hallway of the palace, staring at the candle he had been given with a loathing so deep he could almost taste it. Unbidden, the memory of that dreadful morning rose to the forefront of his mind: the fear, the confusion, the constant exhausting control over his emotions in the presence of outsiders, the sudden loneliness... for despite the fact that they were separated by social status (however contrived), the fact remained that Vetinari was about the only person around whom he, Rufus, could truly relax. It may be _prudent_ to hide his true self for the most part, even around the Patrician, but ultimately if he were the only witness there would ensue no long-term consequences. He hadn’t realised how much he relied on that until it was gone.

That someone would _dare_ , after all the man had done for the city and its people – and Rufus should know! He had watched the place for years before it had developed into a sprawling modern-day city state, and grown then further into a machine which, for the most part, ran smoothly and ceaselessly; creating a discwide power where before had been only a proud and confrontational people, united by nothing other than geography. And that was the work of Havelock Vetinari, the work to which Rufus was now privy, and in which he, to his enduring gratification, had some small influence.

It was truly a gift none could excel: that a star, whose sole concern was to observe, might impact the machinations of discbound sentient creatures. For that alone, even disregarding the gracious manner in which the man had seen fit to treat a mysterious newcomer, Rufus was indebted to the Patrician. This black hole of a man could consume him without a thought, and Rufus found that he would have no qualms with his doing so, if it were what he truly desired.

He realised then, with an abruptness which hit him like a comet, that he _cared_ for this human whom everyone seemed either to plot against or despise. The revelation knocked him utterly off-balance, and he suddenly found the nearest wall a very present help, the cold stone grounding him physically as his thoughts ascended to somewhere in the stratosphere.

He had seen enough of human life to identify this feeling, but hadn’t thought it possible that stars might feel similarly. He supposed he should have done, given his propensity for feeling embarrassment, concern and other such emotions. The blue of Vetinari’s eyes drifted accusingly across his vision, and he winced, thinking back to his fascination with their clear, brutal depths and realising that he had fallen for the man rather faster than his brain had had time to comprehend. He remembered then that human forms needed to breathe, and did so, the world crashing back in around him.

“Drumknott.” The voice of the Patrician floated down the hallway from up ahead, summoning him back to his side.

“Yes, my lord,” he half gasped, still utterly floored by the discovery of his feelings. Hiding this from a man as observant as the Patrician – and moreover, a man who already understood the cause of his inconvenient incandescence – was going to tax him considerably. For the first time in months, he prayed to any god listening that the wizards might discover the means of sending him home in the imminent future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs* realised i accidentally made a Muse reference... shout out if u spot it ;3
> 
> Thank you for reading! This was... a slow one, I know, but necessary xx


	6. 1989: The Fifth Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A comfortable amity has developed over the last two years.   
> Vetinari finally gets round to some decent research, yielding... intriguing results.  
> Oh, and remember the student wizard that Ponder grabbed in Chapter 1? He’s had... better days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?? Two chapters in one day?? I swear I just saw a flying pig going past my window...

 “The days of albatrosses are over at last, Drumknott,” Vetinari commented, installed as was his wont in front of the long picture window with its view over the city, and the constantly moving semaphore system above it. “Though I grant that they have their utility in the secretary-hiring process. It appears that no other application method is _quite_ as effective.” He turned and smiled minutely at his secretary, who had slipped into the room moments prior with a pile of documents on the historical taxation of natural resources.

Drumknott felt his ears begin to burn at the compliment, and fought against the luminescence which he knew would inevitably follow. Despite the passage of four years since he fell from the sky, and two since the discovery of his own feelings regarding the Patrician (to wit, of a decidedly over-friendly nature), he often found himself frustrated by his own celestial nature. He recognised rather begrudgingly on one sleepless night that the reason for this was most likely because his feelings were deepening as time passed, and he was thus forced to exert more effort to achieve the same standard of dullness.

Vetinari, however, seemed not to mind (the idea that he hadn’t _noticed_ was frankly ludicrous), and so all that he, Rufus, could do was to continue striving for perfection in silence.

“I am gratified that you have not had cause to regret the appointment, sir,” he allowed himself to smile back, and set the documents on Vetinari’s desk. “On which note, I thought you may have some use of these over the next few days – in case there are questions from the Guilds at a later date.”

“Truly you are indispensable, Drumknott,” Vetinari remarked almost inaudibly, settling himself back in his chair and leafing through them with a satisfied expression. “Thank you.”

The star inclined his head and returned to his desk, where he was annotating some of the more intriguing clacks messages which had been intercepted over the day. What was the point, after all, in a system of communication which required only speed and intelligence to decipher, if they themselves were not the ones doing the deciphering? It had become another vital part of daily life.

For despite the potentiality for awkwardness or for the discovery of his feelings, Drumknott found himself incapable of refraining from actions which might grant him the Patrician’s approval. The outward shine, which he quelled, translated into an internal effulgence which he carried with him throughout the day, and he found himself quite addicted to the sensation.

He was walking a knife’s edge, he knew, but he had managed thus far; barring grievous accidents he might continue thus in peace.

***

It was an Octeday. Most of the irregular staff chose to take their Octedays off, for reasons of religion, family, or uninterrupted sleep. At the higher echelons, however, this usually had little effect; letters still needed to be read and reports finalised.

Today, however, Vetinari found that the Guilds were uncharacteristically silent, and the Watch surprisingly coherent. He therefore left Drumknott tallying the (distressingly few) tax receipts and spirited himself to the library on a mission which, while tangentially relevant to the workings of the city, was not necessarily work-related in its intent.

He thought little of it. He was a tyrant, after all, and if he wished to research the physiology of a discbound star, he would do so. It had been, after all, four years since Drumknott had fallen, and it was therefore a grievous oversight that he, Vetinari, was not eminently well-versed in his makeup and history. Snippets here and there, certainly, but if (as it appeared), the star was to extend his stay due to wizardly incompetence, then it was merely pertinent to acquaint himself with a deeper knowledge.

Thus it was that he sat in an ancient armchair by the cold grate, an hour later, with several piles of relevant encyclopaedias and other tomes surrounding him, and stared fixedly out of the distant window. He had more information than he cared to know on the physics of stars, the magic of stars, the lifespan of stars... and the use of stars.

A not-inconsiderable number of the volumes which he had happened to inspect had noted, in a disconcertingly cold and scientific manner, that consuming the heart of a star would bestow upon the mortal consumer a poor imitation of the star’s life essence, prolonging that mortal’s life for decades, sometimes centuries. The wizards had surely known this. He quietly cursed them for failing to inform him, then thanked good fortune that in the last four years the worst that had befallen the star had been an almost endearingly amusing lack of emotional control.

Now he possessed this information, however, he ought to put it to its best use. There were multiple options, all of which should be considered in the circumstances. Vetinari thus forced himself to contemplate utilising his secretary in this manner, for the good of the city, and in the brief seconds which passed found himself gripping the worn chair arm with enough force to tear the weak fabric, as a gaping hole opened in the region of his diaphragm. He stared at the floor until the queasiness subsided, and gratefully relegated that option to the mists of inconsequentia.

He dismissed selling the star out of hand; that would bestow far too much power on another person of unknowable inclinations (there were most certainly no other considerations relevant to this decision; such a thought would be ludicrous). All that could then be managed was to ensure that this incredibly valuable resource came to no harm while in his employ. Provided that Drumknott was kept close at all times, this ought not to be a problem.

He steadfastly ignored the creeping tendrils of fascination and glimmers of enchantment lurking in the shadows of his brain at the prospect.

***

On the other side of Ankh-Morpork, in a dingy second-floor dwelling, a young wizard from the Plains was currently reassessing the friends which he had acquired upon his arrival in the city some four years previously. He was almost certain that that was a knife which was being examined in his peripheral vision, but was loathe to turn and confirm this supposition.

They had never been so interested in anything he had had to say before. All he had done was mention the time he had been waiting to speak to Mr Stibbons and by some... accident of construction in the woodwork of the door (which was not as sturdy as it appeared, oh no) overheard the Faculty say they were going to find a star. It was a day he would never forget; he had almost been crushed in the aftermath of the bottleneck out the door.

He swallowed in the dim light and hoped that he could give his erstwhile friends what they wanted. Wizardry was not all it was cut out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?? plot??? I couldn't believe it either...  
> Thank you for sticking with me! <3 xx I appreciate it :')


	7. 1990, Offle: The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rufus is stabbed. Vetinari is attacked. Vimes puts two and two together and arrives at four. There ensue confessions in the dark and then, perhaps, a fledgling romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will most certainly pay to have read this book if you’re new to the series – I hope it’s readable without but one can never be too sure.

There was a sensation of being clubbed around the head. This may have been because he was, in fact, clubbed round the head.

Rufus Drumknott fell to the Oblong Office floor in deference to this fact, but his brain functioned yet, and so he dragged himself into something approaching lucidity, climbed somewhat unsteadily to his feet and promptly felt a searing pain in his side. Had he pulled something? He collapsed again to the floor, patently ashamed of this weakness, and hoped that a few seconds in darkness would aid him. As he was lying in silence, therefore, he overheard the muttered conversation:

“... ‘s a damn _star_ you just clobbered, Mr Tulip!”

“Well then _you_ went and –ing stab-”

“You know what the heart of a star gives you? _Eternal life!_ Remember what that wizard kid we offed last year said?” His large companion was silent, foam leaking gently from his left ear as he masticated the latest ‘drug’ (chilli, glue, and a touch of bleach).

The smaller man sighed. “The kid who told us he had first-hand knowledge of university life? The one who then let slip that there was a star at the Palace?... you broke his fingers with a mallet.” A flicker of recognition in Mr Tulip’s eyes, instantly extinguished. The other, satisfied, continued _sotto voce_ : “That twisty lawyer ‘employing’ us didn’t bet on this. Can you carry both of them?”

Rufus struggled desperately to regain full consciousness. They couldn’t- not before- _where_ was Lord Vetinari?

His efforts were promptly curtailed by the application of a boot to his side. Darkness descended over the pain like a weighted curtain.

***

The hatch on the cell door slid open. There was a brief murmur of conversation outside, followed by Vimes’ voice drifting through the opening with all the gentility of a sack of potatoes.

“His Lordship is awake. Thought you’d like to know, given...” You could practically _hear_ the awkward wave of the hand. Drumknott, however, could also see it, having thrown himself over to the hatch at the first mention of Vetinari, to considerable personal cost. He hoped he hadn’t burst those stitches. He really didn’t fancy a second visit to Igor, and all the Things in Jars that entailed.

“May I see him?” he gasped over the shooting pain lancing through his side, his eyes watering.

Half of Vimes’ face appeared in the open space. His most stony expression melted into grudging acceptance when he saw Drumknott, and he sighed before unlocking the door (which had, of course, been locked for its _occupant’s_ safety). 

“Thought you might ask that. On you come them.” He stood aside and waved the clerk onwards. Drumknott, still reeling from his ill-advised dash to the door, clutched weakly at the stone wall on the brief journey to the next cell over. The door was open, two Watchmen stoically arranged outside. He paused a moment before releasing the happy support of the wall, emitting a distinct and pervasive atmosphere of concern. He hadn’t seen the Patrician in the four? five? days since the event, and dreaded the sight with which he might be greeted.

Vimes meanwhile, with his usual dogged attentiveness, had added up the hastiness, tears, weakness and hesitation and arrived at the obvious conclusion – which although certainly _a_ correct one, was not necessarily, in the circumstances, _the_ correct one. He watched the young clerk walk rather unsteadily into the room beyond and – no. That must have been a trick of the sparse light creeping in through the high window, surely. For a second, it had looked as though he had _shimmered_ , like a kind of... humanoid firefly.

Vetinari was sitting up, hands folded in his lap, quite placidly, and looked up equally calmly as the door was opened and admitted the figure of his clerk. He smothered a smile at Drumknott’s immediate reaction on entering – and admittedly, at seeing that his injuries had not been the fatality which they could so easily have been. A poorly placed stab wound could be more dangerous than any hardened pub brawler could guess – or indeed than any trained Assassin had expected.

“My lord, I’m- I’m so... so... please excuse me, my lord.” Drumknott had turned an unhealthy ashen colour, and Vetinari darted forward and caught him before he’d barely left the realm of the vertical, never mind hit the floor. Incredible how, despite the weight of all those memories and all that time in the sky, he weighed so little; even the Patrician in his weakened state could have lifted him.

Vimes stuck his head in the door, his lips twisting wryly as he eased the young man away from Vetinari, who really shouldn’t have been executing sudden movements, damn him. “I’ve sent one of the lads up for Detritus. _He_ certainly won’t be pulling any stitches out accidentally. It’d be like lifting a kitten.” The troll appeared a few minutes later to find Vetinari again seated on the fold-out bed chained to the wall, and Vimes smoking with one hand, supporting Drumknott with the other.

“Careful as you go, Sergeant,” both men intoned almost simultaneously. Vimes grinned at the Patrician, who looked primly at the opposite wall, and let himself out.

***

Drumknott awoke rather blearily on his own stone bed (complete with blankets donated by some possibly kind soul*) much later on – sometime after eight, to judge from the sliver of dark grey sky he could see from the high barred window. Admittedly, the sky in Ankh-Morpork tended towards greyness and indeed in the winter months darkness, but there was a sluggishness in the air more associated with sleep than with the whirling gazpacho of daytime fog.

Sleep, however, was regrettably no longer on the immediate agenda, as his mind caught up with recent events and proceeded to fly into a frenzy such as it had not had cause to do for the last few days – which had been passed in a dull mist of fear and concern. Vetinari was alive! And comparatively well. It was more than a miracle, given the length of time for which he had slept. And Rufus’ first instinct upon ascertaining this fact had of course been to light up like a Hogswatch tree, risking exposing both his celestial secret to the Commander, and his rather more terrestrial secret to the Patrician.

He was unsure how much longer he would be able to persevere in either endeavour if the Patrician were to insist on landing himself in danger at every viable opportunity. Indeed, if Vetinari continued his current trend, Rufus imagined that he would probably end up doing something unbelievably foolish like throwing himself at the man in relief-fuelled hysteria.

Perhaps, he contemplated (aware as he did so that he would, had he been in a sound frame of mind, look on his own actions askance), if he spoke them aloud he might perhaps efface the emotions from his system. He might (he considered, utterly ashamed of even countenancing the thought), tell the silent and unyielding stones in lieu of a silent and unyielding master, and thus convince his brain that he had confessed all and that there was, after all, no hope in such fruitless dreams.

And furthermore save himself from living out an eternity of heartbreak when he eventually returned to the sky.

He stared at the stone wall by his face and felt like an utter fool. Well, the only person who would know it was himself; he knew for a fact that there were guards only on the outer door during the evening, and so there was no-one here to witness, or overhear, his ignominy.

“My lord,” he murmured into the darkness, the words sounding deafening in his own head and further cementing the conviction that this was the height of madness and that he was in fact merely delirious, “I find myself moved to broach a topic of some delicacy. After considerable re-examination of the lessons which I have learnt over centuries of observing the Disc, I have come to the conclusion that I have something of a... regard for you. I admit that at first the realization was... beyond unexpected, but I find, to my not-inconsiderable consternation, that the heart would appear to have whims all of its own. And though I have attempted to conceal this fact, in order to safeguard the relationship which we share, and which I hold in greater esteem than any precious stones – in its whimsicality and with its customary lack of rational consideration, my own appears to have alighted upon you.

“Why speak now, you may ask? The men who attacked us... knew what I was. I think when they stabbed me, they- they missed. And all I wanted in that moment was to be able to tell you what I am, in fact, not telling you now...” he huffed out a self-deprecating laugh and winced in the gloom, coming to a verbal standstill.

But he must say the words, the time-honoured words, in the hope that the multiverse might whisk them away from him, far away to another disc, or another time.

Feeling once again almost excruciatingly exposed, he whispered to the cold stone, “My lord, I... I...” He swallowed. “I think I... am... in love with you.”

There was silence in the cellblock, stretching on into the icy night beyond.

But unbeknownst to Rufus Drumknott, the walls between the cells of Pseudopolis Yard, while stout, hardy, bare and indeed possessing all of those attributes which one might expect in such a structure, were possessed of several additional traits. Holes, to be precise. Tiny ones, worn down in the plaster over the years, and unnoticeable to an average inmate, even one with time on his hands.

However, when one has no other occupation but to lie on a fold-out stone bed chained to the stone wall and gaze at the stone ceiling, one does tend to notice when in the silence of night the stone begins to speak. Vetinari had had a strenuous few days, that much was certain, but not quite strenuous _enough_ to engender hallucinations. He had thus inched closer to the plaster join nearest the murmuring, and listened.

And smiled.

 

*Always a hazardous guess in the Watch House; one could never be certain that it hadn’t belonged to Corporal Nobbs and was therefore beyond all hope of redemption.

***

Later, once the whole sorry affair had been, if not satisfactorily, then comprehensively, resolved, and they had returned to the Palace under the watchful eye of Commander Vimes, Drumknott was called into the Office by Vetinari.

His confession in the cell had regrettably had no effect on the secretary’s unfortunate affliction, and the possibility that someone, somehow, might have overheard now plagued his every waking moment. His stomach churned at the summons, but he obediently dusted himself down and slipped into the Oblong Office with barely more than a whisper (the whisper being the indication that the wound in his side was still taking its toll; it had gone so deep as to almost – but not quite – puncture the other side).

“My lord?” He approached the desk and waited, projecting a practiced aura of calm.

“Please join me for tea, Drumknott,” Vetinari gestured to the rarely-used plush chairs in the corner of the Oblong Office, originally intended for entertaining, and rose from his seat. “It has been a strenuous few days, and you have suffered more than you ought, given that you are, in point of fact, employed as a secretary, and not a Dark Clerk. I wish to discuss your future.”

The bottom dropped out of Drumknott’s world. Again, although admittedly less literally. He had barely rebuilt after the last time, he thought miserably, taking the proffered seat on the sofa by the (for once merrily crackling) fire; he had no desire to be shunted into an office far from the Patrician and the workings of the city, for no better reason than his own safety. He awaited, agonised, as Vetinari poured the tea (despite Rufus’ attempted protest), the pronouncement of his sentence.

It never came. Instead, Vetinari handed him the teacup, raising an eyebrow rather pointedly when he attempted to lean forward to retrieve it, and then of course surprised all expectations by gazing deeply into the fire as they drank in silence.

Eventually, all silence must end.

“I find myself placed to inform you, Drumknott, that during the evening of my recovery I became privy to certain intriguing information, due to the inadequate construction of the Pseudopolis Yard cell walls. Please relax,” he continued without a breath to his secretary, who had immediately frozen in his seat, grip tightening on the fine china cup. “Abject fear does not suit you, and moreover this is not a reprimand. If it were, we would most certainly not be drinking tea in a warm room.” He raised the eyebrow again, the beginnings of a smirk flitting idly around his lips. “If I make myself clear.”

Drumknott mumbled an affirmative into his tea, and Vetinari smiled, so fleetingly that the distracted secretary might not have seen it even if he _were_ looking in the right direction. He didn’t _want_ to torture the poor creature, but old habits died hard, and realistically, he had never actually had anyone killed who didn’t deserve it, so the star had nothing to fear...

“As I was saying, then,” he continued, “I assume, due to your continual state of nervousness over the past few days, that you were, in point of fact, cognizant of the words which you spoke aloud, and which I heard through the remarkably thin stone walls of the Pseudopolis Yard cells that evening? No pain medication or other hallucinatory drugs concerned?”

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott all but whispered, clearly dreading what might next be said.

And what was next said was, predictably, something which he could in no way have foreseen.

“I didn’t protect you.” The words crumpled in the air and vanished. “You, brought here involuntarily, due to the machinations of the senile, who of all people should expect and receive the protection of the city. Why-” Vetinari paused, uncharacteristically reassessing his words. “Why would you choose to remain so far from your home, from all that you have known?”

The words were matter-of-fact, the tone little more than curious. But the effect on the star was instantaneous, a tentative luminescence immediately suffusing his features, barely there to those who did not know of its existence.

But Vetinari had been watching for it, and allowed the smile which had been lurking at the edge of his expression to make temporary camp there. Drumknott had seemed to find some reassurance in this most unconventional line of enquiry, and was now glowing so totally yet so softly that it might, in a bright light, go unnoticed. After midnight on a winter’s evening, however, he lit up the corner of the room like some sort of fae being, or a will o’ the wisp, leading the bold and assured into waters which they would never usually tread.

Gods knew that Vetinari felt that way.

“The heart is a fickle thing, my lord,” the star spoke quietly to his tea, “I have spent three hundred years watching you all from up in the sky... three hundred years in which to see the best and more often the worst of humanity, of dwarves, of elves, of trolls and the undead peoples... I have watched the terrible things you all do to each other in the name of I knew not what, and have puzzled at how anyone might fool themselves into a state of happiness.

“But now, having lived here, down on a disc, amongst these people... with you... I find it hard to comprehend the horrors which I _know_ exist, when confronted with this inexplicable contentment. If I were now to return to my siblings in the sky, I would feel almost _absurdly_ bereft. I have no pressing desire to experience that again.” He looked down at the hands clasped in his lap and smiled wryly, making firm eye contact with a knot of wood on the bare floor.

Many have characterised Vetinari through the years as a vain man, and indeed that may be so, but that vanity does not extend to mental capacity – if he were otherwise he would be branded only a proud man, and not a clever one. Thus it was that the stark reminder that his employee, his clerk, was in fact a venerable celestial being, in all likelihood possessed of knowledge and histories which he could not begin to comprehend, did not in any way bruise his ego (or indeed, given the specific _context_ of that reminder, inflate it – that such a creature might feel bereft without _him_? Unfathomable).

After such a revelation, and the preceding confession in the cells, he found himself rather positively disposed towards the other, and reached across the space dividing them to run almost curious fingers across a pale cheek. His secretary, who had been watching him with slightly illuminated confusion, burst into a veritable explosion of light. Taken aback, Vetinari practically recoiled, clamping his eyes shut against the visual onslaught, which was just as quickly extinguished.

“I apologise, my lord, I could not help myself. Your actions came as something of a shock to me.” His ears were burning red, and he bit his lip and refocused on the floor.

Vetinari chuckled and moved closer again, hand hovering millimetres above Rufus’ cheekbone. “You fascinate me, Rufus. You are an enigma, a puzzle – and one which is without a doubt infinitely intriguing. To think that you, with your background and experiences, might be content to remain here, in this dusty room... is astounding.”

Drumknott, meanwhile, had heard very little of this, as both his breath and his heart were at that moment vying for space in the cramped environs of his throat at the use of his name, his real name, so casually, as though it belonged on that tongue, those lips... it was as though he was once again surrounded by the songs of the universe as he had been in the past, but oh, _so_ much more enthralling. He had assumed, in the foolish manner of young stars under a thousand years of age, that he had experienced all which the galaxies had to offer.

He had been wrong. The entire multiverse had opened up around him in all its splendour, and finally he could begin to comprehend.

“I would like to propose an alliance of a romantic nature,” Vetinari continued with every indication of ignoring Drumknott’s plight, “until such time as the wizards produce results... whenever that may be. And on that day you will of course be free to decide on your own future. Is that agreeable to you? And I say this,” he added, “Not as the Patrician, but as Havelock Vetinari. If that makes any difference whatsoever to your answer.”

“Havelock.” Rufus turned to look straight at him, eyes shining with a fervent and almost eerie kind of celestial effulgence, causing Vetinari’s own to widen infinitesimally in something approaching wonder (which, of course, in a lesser man would have equated to his jaw hitting the floor) – both at the reminder that this being was very much not human, and at the assurance which three hundred years of life had gifted him, to call the Patrician by his name uninvited. And more incredible yet, uninvited, but _welcomed_. “Of course. Even a brief interlude of my life spent with you would be as so much treasure in my eyes.”

“Good,” replied Vetinari vaguely, still stunned by the depth of feeling evidenced by the other, before sealing the deal in the manner in which such deals are usually sealed (although not quite as often between senior business brokers). Despite the kiss being barely more than brief pressure in deference to the fact that they could not, due to Rufus’ wound, get carried away, the star’s smile when they parted was radiant, in every sense of the word.

Vetinari meanwhile, intrigue clamped firmly around his diaphragm and faint wonderings curling through the edges of his mind, developed a suspicion that this celestial creature who fell from the sky might cause a few more things to fall before his time here was out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like for example Vetinari. In lOve huehuehuehue >:3 I can pretty safely say that this is the second weakest chapter in the whole story btw so I apologise and can let you know that it’s mostly on up from here!


	8. 1990, May: Night Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the 25th of May and Vetinari is... tired. He wants so much to be a decent friend, but Sam Vimes is a granite fortress (forty years of depression and alcoholism will do that to a man). Everyone has bad days sometimes, but there is always a light at the end of the road. Vetinari is fortunate in that his light is more personable than most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will really help to have read (especially the last few pages of) Night Watch for this one, but I think it is just about readable without.

Vetinari slowly closed the door to the Oblong Office, late that night, and sighed heavily, leaning against the dark wood. Overall, he supposed the conversation might have been more fraught – although probably not by much. He had seriously underestimated the depth of Vimes’ feelings after his time away fighting in the Revolution, after the birth of his son and Carcer’s most gratifying arrest.

The words which had been hurled so vehemently through the night air (“ _How dare you! Do you understand? Let them be... How_ dare _you!_ ”) still rang accusingly in his mind. And no, for once he _hadn’t_ understood – how could he, when Vimes himself had suggested the place and material for the memorial? How could he have known that he didn’t want, never wanted that for the men under his command? He had jumped at the opportunity to commemorate his wronged ancestor...

And then, of course, there was the revelation that Samuel Vimes _was_ John Keel... He folded himself wearily behind his desk and sighed again. The twenty-fifth of May was a sombre occasion in any given year, but he felt his gut wrench at the thought of how utterly he might have failed in his duty to the city.

A failure to comprehend the sentiments behind the actions of a single man was a grievous error indeed.

The door opened then, as silently as the falling petals in the cemetery, and admitted a familiar figure.

“Drumknott.” It was more a statement than an exclamation of surprise. “I did not expect you still to be here.” Another failure, it seems.

“You forget, my lord, that I have nowhere which I may call home, save this.” A small smile, perhaps tinged with melancholy, but more wry than anything else. Sometimes Vetinari wondered if he had been a poor influence on the celestial being. But he tried not to dwell on it. That way madness lay – and this evening there was enough with which to be contended.  “Will it bother you if I were to remain? I am simply editing some reports before tomorrow.”

Vetinari waved a hand in a poor imitation of his usual languid fashion, indicating that it was to him neither here nor there. But once it had been offered, he found he would be content with, or perhaps grateful for, company.

“Thank you,” said Drumknott quietly.

After some minutes of scoring-out and scribbled annotations, he left the room, only to return seconds later with a tea-tray and place it gently on Vetinari’s desk. The Patrician didn’t start, being aware in a subconscious way of what was occurring in the room around him, and equally aware that there was no imminent* threat present in the office. He did, however, emerge from a reverie so deep that dwarves might have had trouble finding it, his keenly pensive expression melting into something a little less granite-edged. Drumknott poured the tea beside him in the silence, brushing a hand lightly across a black worsted shoulder, before sliding away as quietly as he had come.

 

*The descriptor “imminent” being required due to the pervasive nature of threat in all its forms, at any given point in time.

***

Hours later, the tea sat cold and stewed on his desk, barely touched save for the initial time-honoured approach of using it for a hand warmer. Vetinari unfolded carefully from his seat, in a manner which in another man might have been considered weary, and Drumknott looked up from his work expectantly, the document before him promptly forgotten.

“Let us go to bed, Rufus,” he almost sighed as he proceeded slowly towards the door, leaning worryingly heavily on his cane; the unseasonably cold air had been playing havoc with his leg, although he would never admit it. Drumknott tidied his work away as cursorily as ever he had done and slipped from the room behind him.

***

“I should never attempt to comprehend emotions, Rufus,” he spoke later into the darkness of the room which Rufus was gratified to call, to a large degree, theirs. “My realm is that of the manipulator and of the politician, and while they have their utility...” he sighed. “I can read a person’s thoughts, their likes, dislikes, their motives... but correctly predicting their emotional reaction is too often beyond me. Certainly in a... more personal sense. When manipulation is to be abhorred. And certainly with regard to...” Another sigh.

 _Ah,_ thought Drumknott, _so it’s not_ emotions _which are the issue, it’s_ him _again. Approach with caution. Indicate ignorance._ He sat up next to the other and turned round, capturing a hand in the dark and pulling it gently towards his own face, which began glowing softly on cue. His eyes shone, quite literally, with something approaching adoration. “Havelock. The emotions of humans remain unfathomable even to myself, who has watched them for so long. It is no negative reflection on yourself, who toils so ceaselessly for those whom he loves.”

Vetinari shook his head, removed his hand not unkindly from the grasp in which it was held. “It is... my _job_ to manage such issues more efficiently, however.” The dark swallowed the sound.

“No, Havelock.” Drumknott smiled softly. “Your _job_ is the care and custody of the city in which we live – in _life_ there are always moments when the skills which stand us in good stead elsewhere are of as much utility as so much marsh gas. All we have then are our intentions, and I know that yours are sound.” He smoothed back a stray black hair in the dim light and smiled down fondly. “And he does too; deep down. You have bestowed a lifetime of goodness on Samuel Vimes already.”

Blue eyes snapped up to meet Drumknott’s suddenly. His soft smile was replaced by one more melancholy. “When you found him, he was nothing; broken and beaten by mere existence and by the movement of the world around him. You gave him a new life, in no uncertain terms. And he will not forget it. Even though he has fashioned his own path in the world which you gave to him, he still remains your man, wholly and completely, despite the darkness which he must carry with him and which no doubt intervened tonight.”

He waited for a heartbeat which drew on for centuries, then added, “And statues are not a panacea, my lo-... Would that they were.”

Long seconds passed in silence, Vetinari gazing off into the shadows of the rest of the room, while Drumknott looked down at him with an expression as soft as moonlight, idly running fingers across a recaptured hand.

“Am I so transparent, Rufus?” he eventually asked wearily, still staring out at the far wall. “To be read so easily by one who has known me for less than a decade?”

“No, Havelock. Transparent? Never that. You forget that I have known you for far longer than a mere six years, was privy to first your developing motives while I dwelt in the sky, and now to your very own self. I am in a unique position... if it is not too bold to say so.”

That elicited a smile at last, and Rufus felt a knot in his stomach, of which he had not even been aware, dissolve.

“If it is boldness which concerns you, Rufus, I believe you may have more pressing issues to consider,” Vetinari replied wryly, somehow contriving to eye the entirety of Rufus’ person in his bed.

Rufus hummed in response and folded himself against Vetinari’s chest, draping over him like a bioluminescent blanket. “You’re a good man, Havelock. And Samuel Vimes knows it. He has too much pride to submit willingly to a man whom he despises. And pray don’t forget that tonight he too is not at his best – although I am sure he believes in what he said, the manner of saying might have differed had he been in a healthier frame of mind.”

He leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, smiling as he did so. “And if I am continuing down the path of boldness,” he continued, “As an ancient celestial being, I find it offensive in the extreme that you might assume I could settle for any human less than the very best.”

Vetinari chuckled quietly in the dim light. “It seems that the twenty-fifth of May is the night for people to talk back to me without reservation... I sincerely hope this will not become a habit.”

“I can’t speak for Vimes, but I can assure you, Havelock, that on my part it most certainly will.”

There was an amused huff from the other man. “Cheeky.” And some minutes later into the velvet darkness: “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grave overuse of the word 'weary', for which I apologise... I should have posted this in one go when I wrote it, proofreading it months later is... tiresome in the extreme and I applaud anyone who has stuck around long enough to read it. (I should stick to wry one-shots and not try to write plot!!!)
> 
> (hehehe Rufus nearly said my love hehehehehe >:3)
> 
> Thank you very much xx


	9. 1991: Going Postal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of daily life in the Oblong Office, prompted the AM PO Diary drawing attention to a certain run of Penny Patricians having grey hairs, and their being Immediately Recalled...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so short largely because I literally cannot improve that book, which is a god among books, or add anything which might be of any relevance to this tale, short of More Flirting.

Vetinari approached Drumknott’s desk to the rare sight of his ever composed, infinitely sophisticated secretary... sitting at his desk and _giggling_ at the contents of a missive which he held in his hand. He quelled the urge to smile like a man besotted (no mean feat, as this was in fact the case) and applied liberal Havelockian Stalk to the rest of the distance, which his secretary had the gall to utterly disregard.

“Rufus.” He placed both hands flat on the desk and leaned over until they were less than a foot apart, glowering, in the opinion of the star who had looked up blandly at the intrusion, quite attractively. “Let me see what you have just secreted in that drawer.” He nodded to the offending object, where indeed less than a second previously Drumknott had placed the mysterious document with apparent nonchalance.

Drumknott gazed up at him with wide, innocent blue eyes, blinking a few times for good measure. When this had no effect on the (really rather gorgeous) display before him, he emerged somewhat coyly from behind the desk, trailed a hand up one tense black arm and insinuated himself between the Patrician and the furniture, for no other reason than that he could. He then ramped the offensive up to eleven and fluttered golden eyelashes beguilingly, smiling up at the totally unmoving face, two sets of pale blue eyes locked in a deadly battle.

“Rufus...” His tone took on a warning edge, but from the glint in his eye he knew Vetinari wasn’t actually piqued. Much.

“Of course, my lord,” he whispered against the other’s lips, prompting a rather gratifyingly sharp intake of breath, before hopping up onto the desk backwards and leaning all the way back until he could reach the aforementioned drawer, maintaining brazen eye contact for the duration. “I wonder what anyone might think if they were to walk in now,” he smirked.

Vetinari positively _scowled_.

Prize acquired, he sat up partway, but regrettably found further movement impossible as the Patrician had somehow contrived to move even closer in the interim, effectively pinning him in a position which was playing havoc with his core muscles. Vetinari inserted a hand, palm up, into the minimal space between them, raising a pointed eyebrow.

Drumknott concealed the rescued document behind his back and said impertinently, “A kiss for my favour, good prince,” – to which Vetinari huffed and pursed his lips, but nevertheless complied, wrapping an arm around his back to support him.

He withdrew clutching the damning evidence in his hand, having liberated it while Drumknott had taken it upon himself to be most artfully distracting. Two, however, could play at that game, and he unrolled the document smugly.

The world ended.

“What,” choked Havelock Vetinari, turning, if that were possible, even more pale as he brandished the sheet of stamps, “are _these_?”

“They’re-”

“ _And I swear to every god extant that if you say “stamps” you’re sleeping in your own room for a week_ ,” he hissed, both eyebrows affixing themselves to his hairline.

That gave Drumknott pause. That was cruel and unusual punishment.

“They were a variable run; somehow the engraved plate was damaged between prints. I acquired these from the Post Office.” And please let him not ask _how_ they were acquired; Moist von Lipwig had been in near-hysterics and while they weren’t in any way _friends_ , he had somehow, with his unerring instincts for people-reading, realised that Drumknott was the best man to inform.

“These... _things_ ,” he shook the offending article like a society lady might shake a fallen handkerchief, “Are on _sale_? To the _general public_? This is worse than I had thought.” He span around abruptly and stalked to the tall window, becoming in an instant as still as an oak.

Rufus followed, smiling. “You really are incorrigibly vain, Havelock,” he commented, wrapping arms around the thin waist. “Not without cause, I might add.”

There was silence for a pair of heartbeats, then Drumknott continued, “You can have them withdrawn, Havelock. They’re technically faulty and therefore make it impossible to determine whether they are genuine or simply a poor forgery.”

Havelock Vetinari never truly relaxed, and so he did not at this information, but he turned around in Rufus’ arms and uttered an acquiescence, casting another disgusted look at the sheet which he still held.

Drumknott, however, had one final suggestion.

“May I keep just these, though?” he asked, brushing an invisible speck of lint from a black shoulder and wrapping arms around his neck. “You do look... terribly distinguished.”

He was most blatantly angling for a kiss and Vetinari was almost tempted to deprive him after the earlier escapade – but unfortunately that was a punishment which had a regrettable tendency to backfire, in that if he, Vetinari, withheld kisses from one Rufus Drumknott, then he, Vetinari, would be condemning himself to the same fate.

He relented with bad grace and allowed Rufus to pry the stamp sheet with all its perfectly printed grey-haired Vetinaris from his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist posting this one too as it's just... so much better, egads... Plot?? No, son, I'm about Flirting and Slices of Life.
> 
> I hope this makes up for the last chapter!! And as always ;) I love comments if you have time ;3


	10. 1992, April: Making Money I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carriage shenanigans. (You know when they’re sat outside the PO for the Entire Morning waiting for Moist? Yeah.) The wizards finally do their job. Havelock Vetinari is a hopeless romantic (tell all your friends).

Drumknott loved going on outings, relished being a part of the Patrician’s daily life in any possible respect, adored looking out of carriage windows like a proud parent at the somehow-functioning city for which they strived relentlessly every day. He loved the opportunity to exist somewhere outside of the Palace walls, despite enjoying his life there – the chance to be seen by Vetinari’s side, and the dull thrill of being discovered for what he was.

For in Ankh-Morpork of all cities, there were bound to be those who would see in a star either immortality or easy money, and neither of these situations boded particularly well for him in a... personal sense.

However, on this particular outing, the method of his discovery by the impecunious or downright deadly would most likely not be one which would leave a shred of dignity intact, never mind his torso.

“Havelock-” he gasped as the other ran a hand lightly down his waistcoat buttons, “You can’t- that is- we should pull the blinds if we’re going to- _oh_ gods,” he broke off as Vetinari transferred his attention to his neck. “People will s- I won’t be able to stop myself from... shining.”

The Patrician looked up from his task and smirked. “Consider it a lesson in self-restraint, Rufus.”

His secretary’s jaw dropped in shock before his head hit the back of the seat as Vetinari worked his way back up his waistcoat, undoing buttons as he did so.

“Someone will... see...” Drumknott gasped, making no move to actually stop him.

“Nonsense,” replied Vetinari promptly. “These are tinted windows. Nobody will come close enough to the carriage to see anything whatsoever. Which is why I can do _this_.” He turned Drumknott’s face towards him with one hand and with the other pulled him almost of top of himself on the carriage seat. Drumknott instinctively moaned quite loudly into his mouth before belatedly remembering where they were. He had to consciously prevent himself from glowing, which was proving troublesome given the rather present distraction; his hands, which were about sixty per cent of his currently visible skin given his clerkly coating, were dangerously bright as it was. This man would be the death of him.

As though reading his thoughts, the Patrician moved away, smiling like a cat who had just been informed that he had won a lifetime’s supply of cream. “I’m getting old, Rufus. Allow me to live a little.”

Drumknott considered that in the present circumstances he could probably get away with throwing a withering look down at the other man. “Nonsense, you’re just bored. You should have told Lipwig it wasn’t urgent, he’d have been down here so fast his legs wouldn’t have been able to keep up.”

“Now where would be the fun in that?” Vetinari purred against his lips, fastidiously loosening Drumknott’s cravat with one hand.

The star gave up and swung a leg properly over Vetinari’s lap; any activity past simple speech was a nightmare when sitting side by side on the narrow carriage seats. “If you’re going to kiss me, do so and kindly refrain from making glib comments.”

The Patrician raised an eyebrow. He would probably hear about that one later. However, Vetinari also did as he was told, as evidently it was what he was angling for anyway, so Rufus counted it as an overall win.

A little later, when Moist von Lipwig clambered, panting from the short-distance sprint from the Post Office, into the carriage, they were once again side by side and the picture of propriety, Drumknott having taken the precaution of setting his briefcase on his knees and slipping on his gloves.

***

 Later on that day, the occupants of the Oblong Office were treated to the art form that was Ponder Stibbons knocking on a door – the very specific knock of a man who was aware that he had valuable information to impart, but was afraid of being heard, or indeed recognised in any way. Admittedly it was no wonder, considering the amount of contact he had with Archchancellor Ridcully, who beyond a shadow of a doubt would walk away with any prize going for largeness, loudness, or plain rudeness.

Ponder had no appointment, but the occasion of his visiting was so rare that his mission could only concern vital information. He now hovered nervously between the door and the Patrician’s desk, less afraid than awkward. Clearly ill at ease with idle pleasantries, he appeared unable to begin speaking of his own volition.

 “To what do we owe the pleasure of this unscheduled visit, Mr Stibbons?” the Patrician asked pointedly.

The wizard edged brokenly into lecture mode. “Well, sir, it’s about- it’s about Rufu- the star. Drumknott.” He screwed up his face a little in consternation, aware that he hadn’t exactly played a glowing opening gambit.

Behind him, the one in question looked up sharply from his reports, made brief eye contact with Vetinari, then focused on the messenger, something like fear beginning to form in his chest.

“Through extended research at the High Energy Magic Building-” Vetinari’s eyebrow twitched derisively, though he refrained from speaking, “-and with the help of HEX of course, we have created, with a combination of dimension flux and independent thaumic generation, a... device which the faculty have seen fit to name the... uh... the Bubbling Candle. Due to the fact that it _appears_ candle-like in nature, but does not in fact produce flame when lit, rather transporting the possessor to the environs of which they were at that moment thinking. The transportation, I am told, is through a sea of bubbles, hence the name, though that could have been because Professor Rincewind was at the time thinking of a warm bath. In any case, the name has stuck. We can send you home, uh- Drumknott.” He turned to the clerk and fairly beamed.

Drumknott had listened impassively to this little monologue, dreading the moment when it would end, hating the passage of every second for bringing him closer to his final moments on the Disc. He felt wretched. The little wizard was so proud of himself, and here he sat, presuming to resent him for his years of hard work.

Much too late, he applied a smile to his face, forgetting in the moment that he was not human, and not able to easily conceal his emotions behind false smiles or crocodile tears, and that the room’s two occupants were among the very few who knew this. In the split second it took him to remember this, he found that every word which he had previously had at his disposal had promptly vacated the premises. The smile melted off his face like butter as he fought to regain some command of language.

“Thank you,” he managed, not looking directly at the wizard, at exactly the same time as Vetinari said without moving a muscle, “Would you be so kind as to wait outside please, Mr Stibbons?”

Ponder looked between the two of them askance as he made an all-too-happy beeline for the door – the Patrician as unflappable and unruffled as ever, of course, but something on Rufus’ face (aside from the lack of positive response to _seven years_ of hard, thankless investigation and research, thank you very much) didn’t quite add up. He perched awkwardly on the bench outside. After fifteen minutes the clock had driven him to beyond distraction (it taking longer than the ten minutes which drove lesser beings to distraction, given his frequent dealings with the Archchancellor, who had a skill for distraction and indeed derailing unmatched by anyone Ponder knew). He silenced it with a surreptitious spell. After all, he wasn’t here as penance, so why should he, in fact, pay?

Five minutes after that he was beginning to get concerned.

***

Once Ponder was safely away from the immediate premises, Vetinari unfolded himself from his chair and made his way slowly to Drumknott’s desk, where the star sat staring at the door with grey, shuttered eyes. It was an sombre sight, as though... _as though the sun were suddenly snuffed out_ , Vetinari thought to himself as he pulled the chair which had been in front of the desk round to the other side, to sit next to him.

He could very easily make this worse if his own emotions joined the fray. The news was a shock and no mistake. They, and certainly he himself, had been lulled over time into the sense that there never would be a solution. But of course his secretary would leave, in the end. They had always known that.

“Rufus...” There was no response. Certainly it was a sizable consideration for one as discerning as his secretary: who could reasonably take over, when would they be ready to do so, was there any action requiring his personal attention – and then the worry that it all could go wrong, that he might be stuck in some kind of limbo and not reach his family at all...

“Rufus,” he tried again softly, “I realise this must be... difficult for you, but please know that I will of course do all I can to help. It is, after all, the fault of Ankh-Morpork that you are here.” _Though I had in my folly forgotten it._ At his age, being brought low by the softer emotions was an experience which he had assumed had passed him by. _Every day an education._

“Difficult... for me,” Drumknott intoned with a hollow voice. If anything, his eyeline drifted even further from the conversation. Vetinari found himself wishing for the first time in his life that he had the ability to read minds; usually body language and facial expressions, combined with previous actions, had sufficed, but Rufus was a closed book. He had been trained far too well. He tried another line of inquiry.

“Rufus. Are you... perfectly well?”

His eyes narrowed a little, but stayed fixed on the door. “Yes, sir, thank you.”

That tiny word, so seemingly harmless, cut through Vetinari like a blunt knife. He began to feel the beginnings of something he knew to be panic, but which he had never previously encountered. It was a day of firsts, it seemed.

“Rufus, please look at me,” he said, in tones now slightly tinged with desperation.

The other blinked and turned slowly, complying as he always did.

Vetinari immediately felt guilt at his deference; had he so tethered and restrained this celestial creature that he felt himself bound to obey?

The eyes which stared bleakly into his own were ashen, lacking any hint of the pale, piercing blue which they had previously been. Vetinari frowned minutely. Was he being... poisoned by the disc? If so it was a miracle it had taken so long for the effects to make themselves known, Ankh-Morpork being the noxious heap which it was.

 Unless he, Vetinari, had simply not noticed? No, such a concept was not to be brooked; moreover, given the amount of time he spent making eye contact on a daily basis (and indeed most memorably that very morning) he would surely have been aware of any such change. He clasped the flawless, still face gently in both hands, and looked for something, _anything_ in those eyes which might aid him.

Drumknott’s mouth moved slightly, but no sound came forth.

“Rufus?” he all but whispered, trailing one hand down to rest on his shoulder and holding his breath in the pervasive silence.

“I don’t... want to leave,” he managed brokenly, in a voice as carrying as a moonless night in the desert.

Vetinari’s world crashed back in, rebuilt in a heartbeat from the ground up. “Oh gods, Rufus...” he breathed, pulling the other up from his chair into an embrace so close that he might have feared he would break the seemingly fragile creature. But Rufus was made of stardust; he was stronger than any mere man.

“You don’t have to go anywhere. I would be... delighted if you were to remain. But only if you wish it. No slaves in Ankh-Morpork, remember.” He felt as though he had aged twenty years in the past fifteen minutes. Truly he must have been blessed by the gods to have avoided the trials of emotion during the early years of his Patricianship. He would never have achieved anything for worry.

They remained standing there in the silence for some time, the room brightening with every passing second, before Drumknott peeled himself away a little to regard the Patrician, his head on one side. Vetinari was gratified to note that his eyes had also regained their usual sparkle, and felt compelled to kiss the incandescent being before him.

And so he did, pressing the tiniest of gentle kisses to any one of Drumknott’s features, until the star finally laughed softly and pulled him back into their previous embrace.

“I’m so glad, Havelock,” he whispered, glowing like a beacon. “But what,” he continued, returning to a normal, if a little hushed, speaking voice, “are we going to tell poor Mr Stibbons?”

Vetinari sighed overdramatically. “You forget, Rufus: I am the Patrician, and therefore the reasoning for my decisions is not to be questioned by mere academics. We do not, after all, live in a _democracy._ ” He shuddered delicately, then returned to his desk, although not before placing one more light kiss on Drumknott’s cheek. “I think it is time we let the poor man in.”

***

Ponder sat through the rest of the interview in some consternation, still flabbergasted by the twenty-minute interlude and the preceding sequence of events. He didn’t quite understand the Patrician’s reasoning for returning him to the University replete with Bubbling Candle, but then he was not himself tyrant material. Perhaps there was something in a special book somewhere to which he had not been privy, as unlikely as that may seem.

“... And please don’t forget to unspell the clock on the way out, Mr Stibbons.” Ponder whirled round to reply, turning instantly scarlet, as the door clicked gently shut behind him. He did indeed unspell the clock, and as he wandered back to Unseen University with the weight of a candle in his pocket and the disc on his shoulders, wondered just what exactly had been wrought on that day seven years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Plot? In my fic?? It's more likely than you think...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! As always, comments are the love of my Life ;) And as always, thank you So Much if you have stuck with me through this, it means heaps xx


	11. 1992, April: Making Money II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet evening after the madness of the last few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, in Making Money Heretofore says Wuffles is dead, but then most of what Heretofore says is, to put not too fine a point on it, erroneous, so I have chosen to ignore that clearly incorrect position.

“Oh aren’t these _lovely_ ,” purred Drumknott, flicking idly through one of the many sheaves of Vetinari-related scrapbooking lately liberated from one Cosmo Lavish’s lodgings.

Vetinari himself pointedly ignored him, and only the very persistent, or very observant (and Drumknott prided himself on possessing both traits) would have noticed the minute flare of elegant nostrils as he wrote.

They were currently sequestered in Vetinari’s own rooms, he himself at a small writing desk on one wall of the adjoining study, while Drumknott had commandeered the sofa for the examination of the evidence which had been recovered after the irksome banker’s arrest. Wuffles and Mr Fusspot had finally stopped fighting over the spot in front of the fire, as they simultaneously realised that they were small enough to share. The remains of tea and cake were arranged artlessly on the long mahogany coffee table. It was, in short, a scene of domestic bliss.

“Oh, Havelock! Remember this?” He held up the scrapbook for perusal, grinning.

An eyebrow twitched infinitesimally. “I have some minor recollections of that particular Hogswatch ball, yes.”

“All that green really brings out your eyes... such a shame the Times weren’t as appreciative...” He skimmed on through a few pages, before his eyes lit on another carefully cut iconograph. “And I remember _this_... you really look _terribly_ dashing from that angle, holding those scissors aloft like some knight of yore...” He peered up surreptitiously from under his eyelashes and noted that Vetinari had stopped writing. He was just about to add another recollection to the litany, when Vetinari responded, fully winching an eyebrow into place:

“Only from that angle, Rufus? One wonders what you see in me at all.”

Drumknott grinned and picked his way across the document-strewn floor, illuminating his own path. “I brought you some more light, Havelock. Clearly your eyes aren’t functioning as well as they ought.”

Vetinari shifted to face him, smiled dryly. “Truly, Rufus, what would I do without you?”

Drumknott perched himself on newly-available knees and looped his arms around the other’s neck. “Happily, Havelock, neither of us will ever have to find out.”


	12. 1992, Grune: Unseen Academicals I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rufus thinks he needs a hobby, gods bless him. Vetinari panics. Rufus panics back. We finally find out why Margolotta is acting so weirdly for all of Unseen Academicals. Part One of Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took less than a decade before the pervasive awfulness and backstabbing of life on a disc started messing with the head of a three hundred year old celestial being. He thinks he needs a Special Hobby to be interesting, gods bless him; Rufus, darling, you’re doing great, don’t you worry about a thing. (Margolotta you’re supposed to be better than this; what good are you if you mistrust your BFF’s partner for no reason I Ask You)

It was, Drumknott realised, curled in the spacious armchair by the window of his quarters, a sorry state of affairs.

Despite all the years which he had spent in the sky, existing and watching and learning, in this the Patrician most certainly outmatched him – as, indeed, did a significant proportion of the city beyond the Palace walls. Why, even the golems, who spent most of _their_ lives as _things_ – even they had wishes, and dreams and aspirations. _His_ aspiration for the duration of his life had thus far been for things to continue as they were; his sole purpose to exist; his fascination the busy little lives and the horrible destruction wrought by the beings on the disc below him.

Now, however, he lived among them, was most intimately involved with the lives of much of the Disc, in any number of ways – and that had become his purpose. No longer did mere existence suffice. And while his work, in a myriad ways, for a myriad reasons, fascinated him, it could no longer be considered _a fascination_ , per se.

For a while, that diversion had been Vetinari. Indeed, to a considerable degree, comprehending the Patrician, his whims and mannerisms, his likes and dislikes, his thoughts and aspirations – remained his, Rufus’, only real interest. And despite the years of additional experience which he possessed in all matters (when compared to everyone save a handful of vampires), this dearth of a more... suitable, discussion-worthy hobby left him feeling... lacking.

Aside from his job, which he executed to the best of his ability, and therefore perfectly at all times, there was little to commend him, he now realised. Interests made people interesting, that much was evident: for nobody would love the banker for his occupation, nobody would find a mere butcher worthwhile; it was those other facets which gave them sparkle and made them themselves.

And so the star, blinded in so short a time by the vagaries of life on the Disc, threw himself bodily into his newly chosen fascination. It wasn’t particularly difficult to select, as he saw it every day and indeed took some pride in possessing it, it being one of the few things in the world which he had actual need of possessing. This was the collection and analysis of stationery, which furthermore enabled him to occasionally undergo forays into the Ankh-Morpork jungle on missions of his own; for once in this smog-drenched city only Rufus.

And he was content, for a time.

***

Lord Vetinari, however, was far from content. Quite apart from all the idiocy at present surrounding the improvement of the game of foot-the-ball, Drumknott had, ever since the dinner at the University at which he, Vetinari, had become unequivocally inebriated, been acting most peculiarly. He could pinpoint it exactly to two days after the event, and didn’t mind saying that he was by now decidedly nonplussed.

There was hardly a night during which his secretary and erstwhile partner had not forgone sleep in order to obtain some rare item by clacks halfway across the continent, or simply in order to better organise the thrice-damned objects. It wasn’t in any way affecting his work, of course, but it was affecting _them_ , and Vetinari felt the loss keenly.

The longer this madness drifted on, the deeper he felt himself sinking into a state of perpetual and ingrained gloom, which was blessedly unnoticeable to anyone save Rufus himself – and to Margolotta, who had of course chosen the time of the football tournament to visit the Great Wahoonie.

Her early, and pointed, inquiry into Vetinari’s health was passed over blithely, and discussions were returned to the orc and the football. And one thing of which Lady Margolotta was not fond was being ignored. She wasn’t used to it, and saw no reason to rectify this state of affairs. As such, she considered the options available in re: Vetinari’s less-than-accommodating behaviour, passing over work-related worries, Watch-related worries (Vimes seemed to have been behaving satisfactorily of late), and alighted on a more... distasteful possibility.

She and Drumknott had never got on particularly well, both being eminently distrustful of the other, due to knowing respectively too little and too much of each other’s backgrounds. Furthermore, she was wary of Vetinari’s forming a relationship with a creature with considerable potential to be a danger to the wellbeing of both he himself and thus of Discwide politics, regarding his decision as exceedingly inconsiderate. Vetinari knew this, and therefore tended to refrain from mentioning his secretary in her presence if at all possible.

Thus it was that when Vetinari unconscionably bitterly let slip that the only person with whom his secretary might be happy was ‘a young lady prepared to dress as a manila envelope’, she pounced on the opening like a tiger on a gazelle.

Drumknott, who had just closed the door when Vetinari had first spoken, and was thus close enough to overhear the comment, could feel his carefully constructed world begin to crumble.

***

Over the intervening days, the general atmosphere of the palace became akin to liquid ice. It crept in under the doors, it insinuated itself into ears and mouths as people slept, it drifted malevolently through the corridors and secreted itself in drawers. The only person who seemed unaffected was Lady Margolotta’s librarian, Miss Healstether (although, thought Rufus, who brings their _librarian_ halfway across the Disc with them? Probably the same kind of person who takes their secretary on long carriage rides and visits to various city premises).

And – joy of joys – by some strange miracle of fate it transpired that she shared his newfound fascination for the intricacies of stationery, and was entranced by his new ringbinder design, insisting that it be patented and consequently spiriting the pair of them off to the library to investigate such law as existed in the area in Ankh-Morpork.

This exercise gave him considerable pleasure, not least because it distracted him from the purpose of all this: namely, an attempt to find something in life on the Disc which could bestow meaning, other than Havelock, Lord Vetinari. As much as he relished the research, however, and as much as their discussions fascinated him, the ice which had inveigled its way inside the palace walls persisted in reminding him: he was drifting away, with the assistance of the Lady Margolotta.

Every day he completed his work quietly and joylessly, with a white-hot knife wedged just below his ribcage, the only warmth within a hundred yards.

And worst of all, his centuries of experience revealed no manner in which the issue might be rectified.


	13. 1992, Grune: Unseen Academicals II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rufus thinks he needs a hobby, gods bless him. Vetinari panics. Rufus panics back. We finally find out why Margolotta is acting so weirdly for all of Unseen Academicals. Part Two of Two

The Patrician made it through dinner by sheer strength of will alone. It was with an alien feeling of balancing on a tightrope that he suffered the after-dinner conversation. Margolotta, he considered, had clearly got up on the wrong side of the coffin that evening. And indeed the previous evening. And yes, perhaps he had not been the gracious host and long-time friend which he was usually, but the kinds of comments she had been making about his secretary... well, they were wearing his patience thin, despite his own discomfiture over the situation.

Most of all, he missed Rufus, and the casual solidarity which they usually shared at work. He had caught himself several times over the last few days drifting away from the page in front of him, and remembering with not-inconsiderable melancholy the last time they had truly spoken. Granted, he hadn’t been sober, but if anything Rufus seemed to have found it amusing, and hadn’t at any point indicated that he regretted affiliating himself with someone so, in his own words, “minutely scrupulous”. Certainly he hadn’t indicated anything of the sort at half four that morning when they had returned.

When the velveteen knock came to the door his heart had the unutterable gall to leap, like some kind of ghastly spring chicken. He loathed himself for it.

He managed a startlingly normal conversation (regarding the two visitors from the University) with his secretary, under the baleful eyes of Margolotta, and hoped, perhaps, that this evening they might actually manage a conversation longer than a tired five minutes here or there.

Vampire politician and human tyrant together, they confronted the curious couple awaiting them: human cook and orc academic. He allowed Margolotta and Mister Nutt to converse, for once himself merely a decorative accessory to the verbal confrontation.

When the pair turned to depart he commented distantly, and with a concerted lack of melancholia, “Did you see that they held hands all the time?”

Truly, romance lived yet in the young. While it was regrettable that he was forced to consign such joys as Ploughman’s Pie to the occasional Hogswatch dinner at the University, fairytale endings such as these gave him hope yet for the future of the city over which he toiled, and for its inhabitants.

As a consequence, the loss of Drumknott made itself ever more keenly felt, and he finally relented, business being to a large degree completed. He ended up practically chasing Margolotta and her librarian out of the door to their waiting carriage (he would have to apologise later, but in the moment could not bring himself to care overly), before proceeding to his secretary’s office with possibly undue haste (he certainly didn’t take stairs two at a time, but it was a close-run thing), and planting himself firmly in the visitors’ seat as Rufus looked up in some surprise.

They were going to Discuss this, Right Here and Right Now, and uncover exactly why he, Vetinari, had been cast aside for a few miserable staplers and pencils.

***

Lady Margolotta settled back into the soft seats of her carriage and sighed contentedly, stretching out her legs to the opposite side in a passable imitation of a large and satiated pink cat.

“I trust you were successful then, my lady?” asked Miss Healstether, climbing up beside her and smiling.

“I von’t pretend to like that creature vich Havelock has picked up, Gloria, but gods!” she laughed mirthlessly, “He’s absolutely unbearable vithout him; the pair of them were as miserable as vet verevolves for the duration. Vun has to know how much to push the dear thing before he snaps and does something of his own volition.” She tapped on the roof of the carriage, which trundled slowly away from the Palace. “Men, Miss Healstether! Vot do they see in them, I vunder?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, my lady,” the librarian smirked at nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last bit of speech of Vetinari’s is taken straight from the book.


	14. 1996, June: Snuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been four years since our last excursion. Vimes noted, quite correctly, that the pair of them are practically married.

It was a beautiful summer’s day, the kind of day which engenders thoughts of merrily-singing birds, rich azure skies and gently fluttering butterflies on a cool, light breeze.

As this was a beautiful summer’s day in Ankh-Morpork, however, such images remained mere imaginings, but the attempt on the part of the Quantum Weather butterflies was appreciated by all who had stepped out to soak up the marginally less smog-obscured sun.

Among such persons were the Patrician and his secretary, who had ventured forth into the Palace’s gardens and made camp among the ruins of the Johnson Exploding Pagoda, which had happily only been capable of exploding once and now served as a sculptural tribute to, if one were artistically-minded, the reach and power of the Ankh-Morpork trading arm throughout the lesser provinces. After the initial explosion, a smaller gazebo (with seats characteristically atop the roof and a red-tiled interior) had been built at the epicentre, representing, to that same artistic mind, the steadfast and impenetrable city-state of Ankh-Morpork.

To its two inhabitants, however, leaning against one fenced wall and surrounded by papers, it represented nothing other than a respite from the burning orb above, while still allowing for the enjoyment of the outdoors. It was a day which enjoined slothfulness, a trait which was in neither man’s nature, but it was not for nothing that they comprised one half of the most powerful men in the city. Sloth was acceptable in such circumstances.

Thus it was that Drumknott, jacket already shed and sleeves rolled up in deference to the heat, set a paperweight carefully atop the latest regular missive from the operative in Uberwald and sighed contentedly, stretching out across the black-clad lap beside him.

Vetinari, one elbow resting on the low wall behind them, propped his head on his arm and looked down at the star fondly, dropping one hand to the golden curls on his knees as Rufus locked eyes, still smiling softly. The star gently captured the hand not engaged in idly combing through his hair, pressing a kiss to each finger in turn. The hand in his hair ceased its movement and lifted him up to something approaching a sitting position again, pulling him into a kiss as gentle as the breeze around them. Drumknott smiled against the familiar lips, trying to compile every sensation in some pocket of his mind, from the light breeze, to the increasingly heady embrace, to the fresh smell of summer and the thin silk shirt covering the arms he now held.

Presently, the inquisitive summer air insinuated itself between them and they drew apart a little, both still smiling, before Rufus returned his head to the recently-vacated lap and closed his eyes. He was probably shining, but with no-one around to see decided that there was little to be gained from worrying overmuch.

Vetinari sat back against the wall again and returned his hand to Drumknott’s hair, twisting loose curls languidly around a finger.

A lone peacock screeched somewhere in the direction of the ornamental trout lake.

It was a perfect day, unmatched in any respect by any day either witnessed or lived previously.

***

Later that evening, when Vetinari produced an elegant stiletto blade in a black velvet box and became uncharacteristically reticent, Drumknott found that a perfect day could indeed become more precious.

“Likewise, Havelock,” he murmured in the evening stillness, sinking into the depths of eyes bluer than sapphires, at once drowning and at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vetinari: How do I tell this person I love them and want to be with them forever? I know! How about a lovely knife, a symbol of my trust in them.  
> ... You absolute nerd, Havelock.  
> (Also the whole Vimes Noticing thing broke my heart and there is an angstier non-AU fic in the works for this concept if I ever get round to finishing it... which, given that I started it a year ago... is unlikely.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is an ending. Of sorts. But there awaits one final revelation on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vetinari is so chipper in most of Raising Steam (the whole Stoker Blake thing? The toy trains? “Beaming” at Drumknott over being given coffee, which is apparently part of the man’s Literal Job??? Gods he’s so cute I love this tyrant) that I took some umbrage at the Established Sombre Characterisation, because really, we never do get a firm grasp of his personality, which seems to change faster than quicksilver, though he is always apparently possessed of a not inconsiderable sense of humour, which I have clung to as a sailor in adversity. The ending four sentences are Neil Gaiman’s, although I have played about with them a little. There's also a footnote I stuck in the middle of the text so the ending ran better; I hope it's still readable!

Vetinari paused a moment in the shovelling of coal, and leaned nonchalantly against the side of the engine cab, smiling at the profile of Drumknott, which was as industriously engaged with the business of train-driving as he ever had been with filing.

“You really are almost preternaturally beautiful with the glow of the coals and the glow of... well, you radiating off you, Rufus,” he commented, causing both the redness and the celestial shine to increase exponentially, for decidedly non-coal-related reasons.

“You’re getting sentimental, Havelock,” Rufus replied, smiling without removing his eyes from the many dials ranged in front of him.

“Old age, I fear, and the liberal application of this charming creature’s whims.” He reached out and tucked an errant curl back up under Drumknott’s hat. “But which creature, you may ask?” he murmured into the stifling air around them. “I know not.”

***

Later, after they had handed control to the backup driver and stoker and availed themselves of the truly glorious bathing system available in their carriage, Rufus, pillowed on Vetinari’s shoulder in the exceedingly comfortable bed (no more coach houses! No more nights apart! No more of those miserable little carriage seats, so ill-suited to long, dull, and moreover excruciatingly _boring_ journeys...), embarked on a venture of some frankness – which was, admittedly, becoming a more common undertaking by the day.

“You know, do you not, Havelock, that for all my love of the new railway, of stationery and of filing – all of it comes a poor second to the place which you hold in my esteem? I would give you my heart, if only I could.”

Vetinari smiled into the golden curls, and then, because he could, kissed them, before replying in such a manner that the smile could be clearly comprehended in his tone, “I confess I had rather hoped as much, however it is gratifying in the extreme to hear you say so.” Even after a decade, declarations of love in as many words still came uneasily to Vetinari’s lips, so aware was he of the myriad misadventures which might then feel narratively obliged to befall them.

He spoke softly into the barely-silence, surrounded as they were with the chuffing and rattling of the engine enclosing them. “For my part... if I might be considered the custodian of that most precious object, I believe I should be content.”

Drumknott turned over in his arms, resting his head on one hand and smiling down at the other. “I believe I could allow it, Havelock.”

And some little while later, as the train sliced resolutely through the night, they slept, a single entwined point of incandescence speeding past the omnipresent dark.

***

Vetinari woke seconds before the piercing sound of three pulls on the whistle, to alert the travellers that Uberwald was near at hand. He had never needed an alarm of any kind, somehow always contriving to wake before the required time. The same could not be said of his sleeping partner, however, who had adjusted to the new sleep pattern required of him by the Disc and in the end taken to it like the proverbial duck to water – and then some.

“All right, Starshine*,” he murmured softly into the golden head, still glowing in sleep, “We have to get up. We shall be in Uberwald in under an hour.” Rufus shifted a little, then a lot, and ended up plastered across him like a rather determined limpet. Vetinari sighed melodramatically. Life as Patrician was not all it was cracked up to be.

[*Vetinari insisted within the privacy of his own head that he was not one for nicknames, pet names, or indeed any other kind of name than the one given to a person, but well – Rufus had been so enamoured of it after it had slipped unthinkingly from his lips that it had regrettably stuck. Which information anyone would promulgate on pain of death, or at the very least the threat of death, which is in many ways considered to be worse.]

It was, however, infinitely preferable to _death_ as Patrician, and thus he rather reluctantly and with some difficulty extracted himself and ensconced himself in the adjoining dressing room until Rufus deigned to witness the gloomy morning breaking across the imposing mountains.

They arrived.

They returned.

Life continued in the city – not as _normal_ per se, for this was after all Ankh-Morpork, but continue it most certainly did. The motor-bike was invented, to Drumknott’s enduring delight and Vetinari’s perpetual concern; the orcs came down from the mountains and began practically snapping up the library and accounting jobs going in the various Guilds across the city; the insurance system was overhauled, as was tax collection – every day the same as yesterday, while every year constituted a striding step forward.

Ankh-Morpork was the city, and the city was the world, the melting-pot of nations, sprawling further out and further still towards the Netherglades and to Chirm.

And so they ruled for fifty years. But no man can live forever.

Except he who possesses the heart of a star.

And Drumknott had given his to Vetinari completely. Once all the little schemes had come to fruition, and indeed all those other little schemes birthed by those aforementioned had likewise, it was time to light the Bubbling Candle.

And they still live happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Praise be to Anoia. It is ended. Thank you for your continued patronage over this ridiculously long journey of almost a full year – and thank you too for making it through if you are finding this all fully published (especial congratulations for getting through Unseen Academicals; it was indescribably difficult to do /anything/ with that gem of a book). I hope at least parts of it were enjoyable – if you liked it I would love to hear from you <3 (No really, I will take anything. I am greedy for comments of any form.)
> 
> Thank you again. xx


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